


The Perfect Stranger

by 72reasons



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bisexuality, Blow Jobs, Frottage, Grindr, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, I don't care who is on top or who is on the bottom and neither do they., I love them so much guys, Love Confessions, M/M, Online Dating, POV Alternating, Pining, Sherlock's lisp, Switching, They are going to be so happy together, Unrequited Love, flirty john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-06-03 08:07:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 39,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6603310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/72reasons/pseuds/72reasons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John pining for each other, basically since the beginning, but neither wanting to risk their beautiful friendship, living situation, or The Work. Each of them separately thinks that maybe dating another man will help to alleviate their lustful feelings for the other. Without knowing what the other is doing, they both download Grindr and each have a few encounters with random men. One day, the most observant man on the planet finds his beloved, supposedly straight, army doctor's profile on the app, looking for a male lover. Angst, miscommunication, and ultimately love.</p><p>Set around the end of S1 and the beginning of S2 (you know, the pool).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Well, this is inconvenient_ , he thinks. He’s been through failed relationships, some early-in-life sexual attraction and activity, drug use that sometimes got a bit out of control. He’s in control of those urges now, and has rarely felt the siren song of syringes or shagging in years. Then a handsome army doctor hands over his phone and in his eyes, Sherlock sees a flicker of something he would confirm the next day.

John Watson is a brave and dangerous warrior in a cable knit jumper.

By the time Sherlock asked, “Dinner?” and John’s perfect answer was, “Starving,” it was over. He was completely besotted, obsessed, consumed with thoughts of John.

Sherlock’s feelings were inconvenient, because the gorgeous perfect army doctor? Well, he was not gay.

 _It’s okay_ , he told himself. _Just having John around, in my life, my work, as my most trusted friend is enough_. This he told himself every day, and he was thankful. He hadn’t had a friend besides Lestrade in a long time, and Lestrade was more like a colleague. No, John was different. Sherlock loved him, was fascinated by him. He needed to keep John close, so he buried the attraction and the affection, and only let some amusement and camaraderie show through his mask. John seemed to respond beautifully. He appeared to genuinely like and respect Sherlock, and was sometimes in awe. He said, “Amazing” and “Brilliant”. It was enough. It had to be.

\---------oo----~----oo---------

 _Fuck me_ , he thought. _What the bloody hell was that?_ Mike said, “Yeah. He’s always like that.” John looked back at Mike but didn’t really see his face. Sherlock Holmes had seen right through him, knew so much about him with only one look. And was that a wink there at the end? What the hell?

He and Mike walked up the stairs and out of the building, exchanged numbers and said their goodbyes, promising to keep in touch. John limped his way back to his studio flat, his temporary accommodations. A quick search for “Sherlock Holmes” turned up his website. It was very detailed and he could imagine Sherlock’s rapid-fire voice (that voice!) delivering the slightly boring information. He remembers thinking that he must be round the bend to consider living with the madman. The interesting, mysterious, strangely gorgeous lunatic.

Thinking of living with a man like Sherlock Holmes made him twitchy and his stomach flipped dangerously. He’d never ever had such a strong initial reaction (attraction) to anyone. He had to see it through. So he met him at the flat and got defensive when the landlady suggested they might be sharing a bedroom. Protesting a bit too much, he hoped his true feelings wouldn’t be revealed to the world’s most observant man.

He couldn’t help his impressed outbursts at that first crime scene, but tried to keep his staring at a minimum during the stakeout dinner. He didn’t succeed, and Sherlock knew what he was doing, and rebuffed John’s slightly awkward personal inquiry. Disappointment weighed heavy on his shoulders. He wasn’t going to get to touch the sexy madman.

John’s feelings were inconvenient, because the stunning consulting genius? He was married to his work.

By the end of the second night, his feelings were stronger, but he didn’t care as much about being shot down as a romantic partner. He cared that the one-of-a-kind genius didn’t do something ridiculously stupid to get himself killed. The world was better with Sherlock Holmes in it. John learned to look away when Sherlock’s shirt buttons strained, which was often. He fell in love with Sherlock, but respected him as a man and a friend. He would never do anything to ever jeopardize the trust and friendship Sherlock had gifted him. Never.

\---------oo----~----oo---------

The problem was that they spent so much time together. When he was awake and aware (and not in his mind palace) he was watching John either outright or surreptitiously. Lying on the couch sulking, or pretending to sulk harder than he actually was, Sherlock stared off in the direction of their chairs. It was cold in 221B and John was building a fire. Sherlock made a habit of staring towards John, but not directly at him unless he absolutely knew John wouldn’t catch him. This made it difficult to stare at his face. He had to constantly be vigilant for John’s eyes, which may flicker to his without warning. He was much better able to study John’s face in profile. Sherlock had perfected his middle-distance stare. Now though, he could look his fill, because John had his back to him. Sherlock could just barely see his ear, lower jaw, and cheekbone when John reached for the poker or a new piece of wood. He didn’t have much time to ogle the man, the fire was glowing nicely already.

He stared at John’s back. His shoulders were broader than Sherlock’s but his waist was not as narrow. It gave him a lower center of gravity and a compact form that Sherlock wanted to wrap his body around. His hands wanted to squeeze both deltoids, one in each hand. He wanted drape his taller form over John’s back trapping his hands between them. He wanted to use his fingertips, eyes closed, and catalogue the scar he knew was on his left shoulder. The scar that allowed him to return to London. To find him. To save him, really.

He stared at John’s thighs. John was not a tall man, but his body was strong. His thigh muscles bulged through his jeans, and Sherlock imagined being able to let his finger trace up the outside of his quadriceps femoris, from knee to hip, then dip down, and trace it from groin to knee again. John squatted while he worked, building and stoking the fire with one hand using the heavy poker, the other hand resting on his knee as he sat on his heels.

He stared at John’s arse. Bent over, almost anyone’s arse looked enticing. But Sherlock thought John’s arse was the most perfect one he’d ever seen. Clothed, of course, because he knew not of it otherwise. _Pity._ His hamstring muscles were tight all the way up to the curve of his gluteus. That muscle was small and tight, but there was a softness just above, like a slight swell behind each hip. Sherlock thought the word “love handles” was used to refer to this part of John. Love handles. He could imagine his large thumbs squeezing both hips while all four fingers gripped that slight softness at his back. He could imagine… _no…don’t imagine it...bare_. Sherlock let out a soft moan. John turned slightly, and said “All right?”

“Yes, John.”

He went back to working the fire, which was burning well. Sherlock knew he would turn around and sit back in his chair, or head to the kitchen, very soon. He looked away.

The urge to touch John after he’d stared for a while was overwhelming. He physically turned, facing towards the back of the couch, and clasped his hands between his knees. He needed to stop indulging this unhelpful obsession of staring at John’s body parts. The poor man had no idea he was being so keenly observed. The way Sherlock inspected him was like an invasion of privacy, and wasn’t that some kind of breach of trust? Sherlock wasn’t sure, but he told himself he would try to do better - to leave John alone, or at least to tell his eyes to leave John alone.

There must be some solution, a way to alleviate the desire, the hungry want, for John Watson.

Sherlock pondered this puzzle. He loved puzzles, but he only loved them for their solutions. The way he saw it, there were three possible ways to solve his problem. He could deeply suppress his urges, using discipline and the power of his vast intellect, so he could look at John feel only neutral fondness and friendship. The problem was that he had tried this for months and was failing spectacularly. He could be honest with John, tell him how he felt and see if John could possibly feel the same way. This action was very high cost with little chance of reward. There was no way a straight man could love him, and knowing how Sherlock felt, there was no way John could stay living with him. John would feel terribly guilty because he couldn’t return his sentiment. He also wouldn’t feel comfortable continuing his quest for a romantic relationship with a woman in front of his pining flatmate. No, Sherlock couldn’t be honest with John. He would lose his only friend and the person he desperately loved. Lastly, he could find someone else to act as sort of a surrogate for his sexual urges. There would never be another John, but maybe there would be someone out there with graying blonde hair and a compact body who would arouse Sherlock enough to satisfy his cravings. He had doubts that this solution would actually solve his problem but he was willing to give it a try on the off chance that it would help a little.

It might even be fun. Sherlock hadn’t been with anyone for a long time, but he never had trouble attracting attention. At one time, he had enjoyed the sweaty rough abandonment of control that came from mutual sexual gratification. Yes, maybe he would try it out. But how to go about it. A long time ago, he would go to a club. But he had heard about dating apps for mobile and thought it might be nice to sort of “shop” for a potential partner and talk to them via text before indulging. It seemed easier to negotiate terms somehow. He pulled out his phone. After a quick search, he decided on Grindr, and downloaded the app onto his iPhone.

\---------oo----~----oo---------

The problem was that they spent so much time together. He wanted to be in a romantic relationship, preferably with Sherlock, but since that was never going to happen, he tried for a while to meet someone else. John was always on the pull, actually, but it hadn’t worked out too well lately. When he finally got a job, he asked out his boss, but their first date was basically a disaster. Why she wanted to try a second date was puzzling, but she did. Maybe she was just like everybody else, trying to make a connection, trying to get close enough to someone to share her body. John couldn’t make it work, though they stayed friends and colleagues, he just didn’t think she would fit into their life. Really there was no place for anyone else in their lives. Because that’s what John’s life was, it was shared with Sherlock Holmes, and he didn’t want that to change.

John built a fire while Sherlock lazed on the couch. John waited for the inevitable whine of boredom that usually came post-case. It had been two days, John had been bracing for it and wondered if he could coax Sherlock to play something for him. Behind him he heard a small sigh and groan.

“All right?”

“Yes, John.”

John would never know what went on in his head and stopped trying to figure it out a long time ago. If he needed John to know something, he would tell him. He heard Sherlock twisting himself around on the couch, his back would be facing the room now. If this was the beginning of the tantrum then John would need to be prepared. He stood up, walked into the kitchen to put on the kettle. If Sherlock was about to start insulting him, or shoot up the walls, or whatever else he did when he was bored, then he would need tea. He switched on the kettle, peeked around the corner and said, “Sherlock? Tea?”

“Hmm,” came the non-answer.

It sounded affirmative to John, so he pulled two mugs from the sink, rinsed them, and added bags to each. He poured the hot water over the bags, let them steep a few minutes, pulled them out, added milk to both, and sugar to Sherlock’s. Quietly, he stepped towards the couch and placed the mug on the coffee table. He knew Sherlock knew it was there and did not expect an acknowledgement.

“Thank you.”

It was very soft, so soft that John might have almost missed it. But he didn’t. Sherlock definitely thanked him. So rare was this declaration that John paused for a few seconds out of something like shock. Yet another thing John didn’t understand, but he needed to acknowledge, in a positive way, hopefully to motivate him to say it more often.

“You’re welcome, Sherlock,” he returned, just as quietly.

John padded back over to his chair, checked on the fire and saw that it was still burning nicely, sat down with his tea, and picked up his book. He read the words but didn’t really take them in. He was distracted by Sherlock’s nearly still form, breathing slowly on the couch, tucked into the fetal position. Sherlock wore the tartan dressing gown, which looked warm and was slightly large on him. It was longer than his other gowns so it was tucked all the way around the bottoms of his feet. John stared at his head of curly dark hair. He let his eyes sweep down to the nape of Sherlock’s neck, which was obscured by his collar, but John knew that his hair looked softest just there.

He stared at Sherlock’s shoulders. They were not as broad as his own, but they were strong. John imagined hugging him, wrapping his arms around his shoulders, dragging his hands up and down his back, caressing Sherlock’s shoulder blades. He imagined letting his hands move down to the lean waist. John was always trying to get Sherlock to eat a little more, so he hated to admit how much he admired his slim torso. He slid his eyes down a bit more.

He stared at Sherlock’s arse. The rest of Sherlock was long lines, slim elegant features, but his arse? That was something different. John thought of a peach when he looked at his arse. A plush, ripe, soft peach. He thought that his hands would fit perfectly over each cheek and if he squeezed, he could imagine Sherlock’s surprised gasp. He wanted to swallow that gasp away with his own breath. He imagined he wouldn’t have anything more than some soft sparse hair. John ached to be able to softly trace his fingertips over each swell, down his sides to his hips, and back around again. He longed to squeeze and caress and allow his thumbs to press into the crease, just between, where he could imagine exploring Sherlock intimately with his fingers, and tongue, and... _oh my god I’m sitting here with an erection_.

He needed to stop this right now. Sherlock didn’t feel things that way. Sherlock couldn’t help it if he was devastatingly drop-dead gorgeous, but didn’t know it. He couldn't help it if the way he moved his body was unmistakably sexual, even though, to John’s knowledge, he didn’t have sexual urges. Or at least didn’t act on them with another person. John had never known Sherlock to date anyone, and after that first dinner, they never discussed it. No, John didn’t stand a chance, and as much as he wanted a romantic relationship with Sherlock, he had to accept that he never would. He loved Sherlock. He was in love with Sherlock. But he loved their life together. Sherlock saved his life, literally, and if John ruined their friendship because of unwanted feelings he would lose everything. He’d be dead again.

He sipped his tea and noted that Sherlock was on his phone. John’s train of thought had taken his attention away from Sherlock’s anatomy. He went back to his book and was grateful that his trousers felt a bit less tight. He subtly adjusted himself and the warmth of his hand threatened to arouse him again. He really needed to do something about this. Being so close to Sherlock all of the time was going to drive him crazy. _Was he emitting pheromones or something_? John had never felt this way about anyone, but it shouldn’t be that surprising, there was no one else like Sherlock Holmes. And John had never been as close to anyone in his life.

Trying to suppress his desire was not working. He was more attracted to Sherlock than ever. The more he got to know him, the more fascinated he was, the more he admired his heart and bravery, and of course, his brilliant mind. The way John saw it he had two options. He could tell Sherlock how he felt. This was a really terrible option. _Sherlock, I think I’m in love with you and I’d like to be your boyfriend and kiss you and fuck you and I want you to be mine forever_. He imagined him blinking a few times, totally ignoring what was said, then saying something like “You know I don’t feel things that way, John” with a smirk, and treating John like the idiot that he was. John would be humiliated.

His only other option was to find someone else. He had already tried that, it wasn’t going to work either. Maybe he’d been going about finding a date all wrong. He had a relationship with Sherlock, but he just didn’t have the sex. So he needed to find just sex, just fucking. He’d heard that it was easier these days because of dating apps for mobile. He put down his book and picked up his phone. A quick search and he was browsing through the reviews for Tinder. But something was nagging at the back of his mind. If he downloaded this app, he’d start chatting with some nearby women and probably be able to meet and have sex pretty easily. The problem was that he didn’t want women right now, he wanted Sherlock. Dead sexy, very male, Sherlock. He started scrolling through the gay dating apps. He wasn’t gay, he’d said it often enough. But he wasn’t straight either. He didn’t have much sexual experience with men besides a few mutual handjobs with a good friend in high school. He had really loved Tom, but when they graduated, Tom went to a different university and they lost touch. Then there was James. Their relationship hadn't gone beyond flirting, lingering touches, and long looks, for obvious chain-of-command reasons. He hadn’t felt attracted to any other man until Sherlock. John thought if he found someone tall with curly dark hair, maybe he could fantasize about Sherlock, which wouldn’t be fair to whoever he was with, but as long as everybody got off, what was the harm in a little fantasy? John found a well-reviewed app called Grindr and downloaded it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because this story was set several years ago, I had them download the app that was popular at the time - Grindr - despite the controversy or reputation that it might have now.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I am [onesmallfamily](http://onesmallfamily.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock waited until the next day when John was out to open Grindr. Although Sherlock thought the name was stupid, something about “grinding” awoke something base within him. It had been so long since he’d felt attracted to anyone. Dismayed, but hopelessly turned on, his body betrayed him daily. He went over his three options for solving this puzzle and resolved to find a handsome blue-eyed partner to share orgasms. Clever, sarcastic, brave, wise, gorgeous, luminous...he didn’t hold out hope to find these traits in anyone who was not John Watson. But maybe he could find blue eyes.

He opened the app and started going through all of the questions necessary to set up a profile. He had opened a new e-mail account specifically for his solicitous search. He chose a username, answered questions about what he was looking for, and then thought about what kind of picture he’d take for his profile. Definitely not his face. He had strange facial features which put him just on the other side of handsome. His body, however, was attractive. He knew that. He decided to shoot himself from the side, to show off his torso and hips. He pulled down his pajama bottoms slightly so they wouldn’t show. He held the phone out at arm’s length, turned slightly, then jutted one hip out. The photo showed the definition in the muscles of his abdomen and hips, and just a slight shadow where a trail of sparse hair emanated from his navel downwards. Sherlock played with the colors a bit but ultimately decided against black and white. While he thought it looked flattering, even beautiful, he didn’t want to seem pretentious or too artistic. He submitted everything, making sure the location feature was turned off. It wouldn’t do to be discovered by Mrs. Turner’s married ones or a client.

Eleven seconds later, his phone pinged. He had a message from _caliboy9_ that just said, “Nice photo. What are you into?” He looked at the profile of _caliboy9_ which was a close up photo of the side of one gluteal muscle. It was a nice arse. Regardless if it was _caliboy9_ ’s actual arse, he was turned off by how brazen it was and how direct the message was. Sherlock wasn’t really that prudish ( _Was he?_ ) but he might like to be chatted up a bit more, with a bit more finesse. By the time Sherlock looked over the profile, his phone had pinged four more times. Well, it seemed like he wouldn’t have trouble getting attention. Sherlock settled back on the couch and scrolled through the messages.

\---------oo----~----oo---------

John told Sherlock he was going out to do the shopping and a few other errands. In reality, he only had to pick up some milk and a few other sundries, which he would get after heading to a Pret a few blocks away. He ordered a flat white, found a table, and sat with his back facing the wall. He opened the app and started answering the questions needed to fill out his profile. He chose the username _blackheath70_ , stated that he was looking for casual fun, no strings attached, and noted his preferences for tall, brunette, and drug-free. Normally, he would probably post a face picture on a dating site, similar to the one on his blog. But he really wanted this little adventure to just be casual, he was meant to get Sherlock out of his system. He really didn’t need the man knowing what he was up to. What if someone recognized him, and posted a comment on his blog? Sherlock read the blog and its comments religiously. He loved to berate John’s writing, or insult his readers. No, he’d have to come up with some other picture. Nearly every profile photo on Grindr was a body part so which one should he chose? His shoulders were sort of nice, but then there was the scar. He wasn’t self-conscious about it when he was intimate with someone, but it was different when it was a photo on a site full of random blokes. He could wear a vest which covered most of it. He also liked his thighs, but he couldn’t figure out how to take a thigh photo that wouldn’t seem too sexual or just plain strange. His favorite body part (one that he was not proud of, because how could one be proud of the dumb luck of good genes) was his cock. But that was just going too far, he would not be exchanging dick pics with anyone, and he certainly wouldn’t put his bulge out there as a profile picture. He searched through his photos to see if there was anything in there that might be appropriate. He scrolled through photo after photo of Sherlock. It hit him again just how much Sherlock was his life. He swallowed regret and longing and focused on his mission.

There was one photo taken by a woman he had briefly dated...well, he had pulled her at the pub, fucked her sweetly, then invited her to watch him play rugby the next morning. They hadn’t connected again after that one night, but she had taken a few photos of John playing and texted them to him. It was in the early morning light, and he was mostly in silhouette. He was carrying the ball in one arm, other arm outstretched in defense, running full speed. The muscles in his legs were not that obvious because of the lighting, but there was just enough to see some definition in his short rugby shorts. He zoomed in and cropped the photo so that it was un-recognizable from the original, in case for some reason Lucy ( _Judy? Lily?_ ) happened to be perusing profile photos on a hook-up app for men. Lastly, he turned off location services and was ready to submit. He decided to wait a day to see if what he had written and posted made sense. He was a bit hesitant about his whole plan, so it wouldn’t hurt to wait a day or two to get used to the idea before he put himself out there. He didn’t think he’d be inundated with attention, he simply wanted to take this slowly.

\---------oo----~----oo---------

Sherlock texted back and forth with two different men, and after he determined that both could be discreet, he sent them both photos of his face. A man named Bill had told him that he was an army lieutenant, and he was 172 cm tall with grey hair, and about 10 years older than Sherlock. He had been a bit obsessed with Sherlock’s lips after he sent his photo. They agreed that Bill would host that night. They didn’t really discuss exact details of what would happen, but their text conversation was suggestive and frank enough that Sherlock was pretty sure he knew what to expect.

He showered quickly but thoroughly. John teased him about his many skin and hair products so he took to hiding the most expensive and specific ones in his room. He went through the Kiehls skin care routine ending with lip balm that wasn’t shiny, but somehow accentuated his lips in a way he hoped Bill would appreciate. He dressed in his best black suit and a dark blue shirt without a tie, of course. His hair was tousled and he was wearing French cologne Mycroft had given him at some point.

Sherlock walked out of his room to find John in the lounge watching the news. He looked up and stared at him. Sherlock pretended not to see him and walked to the door, grabbed his scarf, and put on the Belstaff.

“Going out?”

Sherlock smirked at John. It was so obvious that he was going out but it was so like John to say something, anything to start a conversation. Sherlock didn’t quite understand why.

“Yes.”

“Case?”

“No.”

John frowned, sweeping his eyes up and down Sherlock’s form. Maybe John was becoming more observant. Maybe he could deduce that Sherlock was going on a date. Well, when I say date… Sherlock met John’s eyes and said, “Meeting someone. Not dangerous. See you later,” and walked through the flat door and down the stairs.

John seemed worried. But he figured that his his “not dangerous” would help alleviate his worry, and that he would forget about Sherlock’s exit as soon as the commercial break was over.

Sherlock hailed a cab easily, and made his way to Bill’s flat.

The address was a posh building in Chelsea. The cab pulled up in front, Sherlock paid with cash, and exited onto the street. He tapped 507 on the keypad and entered when the door buzzed. He hated to admit it to himself, but he was a bit nervous. He hadn’t been intimate with anyone for several years. The thought of kissing someone who wasn’t John was not that appealing but if he let himself imagine that it was John... _well, that might work_. Particularly if he imagined that hands in his hair were small and steady, if he imagined the hips he squeezed were strong with a slight softness just above... _yes, that would definitely work_. Sherlock adjusted his semi-hard cock in his trousers.

Sherlock pulled his coat around him further, stepped out of the elevator, walked down the hall and knocked quietly on Bill’s door. Bill answered the door, extended his hand and said, “Hello, Sherlock.” He answered Bill’s greeting with a smile, and a soft hello.

“Come in. Please.”

Sherlock looked around the flat. Posh. Modern. Floor to ceiling windows. Sleek kitchen. Very clean. He turned to Bill, stepped into his personal space, and smiled down at him. There was no doubt that this was not John, with his bright blue eyes and shaggy grey hair, but he was exactly John’s height and his body was a similar build. Sherlock would not be looking at Bill’s face much after this first observation, so he took in every detail which may become important, of which there were few.

Bill stared at Sherlock’s lips. It would have been obvious what Bill wanted, even to someone who was not Sherlock. “Would you like something to drink?”

“No.”

“Okay. What would you like?”

Sherlock leaned in as Bill tilted his head up to press their lips together. They each opened their lips and tangled their tongues together wetly. Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to lose himself in the sensation of the kiss. Bill’s mouth was minty, his lips soft. He pulled slightly back so that he could press small kisses to Sherlock’s upper lip, then he sucked his lower lip into his mouth with a soft moan. Sherlock relaxed and let him explore.

“Your lips are absolutely gorgeous. I have been thinking of little else since you sent me your photo.”

Then Bill was kissing him again with slightly more urgency. He held Sherlock’s face with both hands running his thumbs over their joined lips. He let go to use his index and middle fingers to touch Sherlock’s lips as they kissed. It was slightly odd, but more than a little arousing to have his lips worshiped this way. He pulled Bill’s thumb into his mouth, lightly sucked, and flicked his fingertip softly with the end of his tongue. When he finally opened his eyes, he was not surprised to find Bill staring at his mouth, a downright devastated expression on his face. His desire was clear and he was already wrecked. Sherlock remembered the power of sex. The absolutely control he could have over his partners, if he chose to. _Oh Bill, you have no idea what’s coming_.

“Let’s get a little more comfortable,” Sherlock said as he scanned the room, eyes settling on a pair of modern yet cozy looking chairs near the large windows. Sherlock walked over to them, took off his coat and threw it over one chair. He removed his suit jacket, carefully folding it over the Belstaff. He turned slowly back to Bill, and confirmed that, indeed, Bill was staring at his arse. _Too bad, Bill, that’s not on tonight_. He beckoned Bill closer with a quirk of his eyebrow and a slight nod. He reached out towards Bill’s belt, deftly undid it and the clasp of his trousers, pulled down the zip and palmed Bill over his pants. He was already hard, and Sherlock noted, circumcised and slightly smaller than average. He opened Bill’s trousers, pulled at the waistband of trousers and pants together, and removed them quickly. He gently guided Bill to sit in the chair. Sherlock kneeled between his open knees and stared, grateful for Bill’s size because it had been a while and he was out of practice. Sherlock produced a flavored condom from his pocket, and gracefully rolled it over Bill’s erection.

He did not look up to see if Bill was watching. He knew he was. He grasped the base of Bill’s cock, licked his way up and down the shaft, then gently pulled the head of his cock between his lips and simply held them there while his tongue swirled around the head, and flicked at the slit. Bill groaned above him and placed one hand in Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock kept swirling his tongue, increasing the wetness until he could easily take all of it in, bobbing his head so his lips went from base to head, down and up again, slowly but firmly. All the while, he was using his hand to stroke in time with his lips. Bill moaned with every stroke, “oh, oh, oh.” Bill grasped his hair tighter, and Sherlock moaned around his cock as it hit the back of his throat. Sherlock knew Bill was close, but he wanted him to know just who was in charge.

Body going taut, Bill stilled and held his breath. Sherlock pulled off completely, and squeezed the base. He grunted a dissatisfied sound, “Hngph,” and Sherlock stared at his cock. He let go of Sherlock’s hair, and moved his hand to cup Sherlock’s jaw and run his fingertips over his lips. After a few seconds, Sherlock licked his lips, heard Bill moan from above him, and stared some more at the cock in his hand.

Sherlock would not look up. This was no longer Bill. It was a cock he was trying to pretend was John’s ( _nope, not even close_ ) and he was trying to make the cock feel fantastic. So he lowered his lips to the head, just running his bottom lip across the frenulum, back and forth several times. Bill’s hand went back to Sherlock’s hair and he thrust up just slightly, hitting his hard palate. Taking the hint, Sherlock took the entire length into his mouth, head hitting further back, the size making it easy given his general lack of a gag reflex. Teeth covered, lips taut, cheeks hollowed, Sherlock bobbed up and down a few times, stroking in time with his hand. He took his other hand and pressed his thumb against Bill’s perineum. Sherlock slowly, yet firmly, pressed tight circles into Bill’s sensitive skin. Bill groaned loudly, his balls drew up tight, and his cock stiffened further. He tugged at Sherlock's hair. On the next up stroke, he pulled off, and removed the condom quickly. He gave Bill’s cock two more strokes and then Bill was coming in pulses across his hips and belly. Sherlock made sure he watched and kept his lips and face out of the way. Observing ejaculation was always fascinating, and often had the advantage of being a turn-on. This time was no exception and Sherlock found himself staring at Bill’s spent cock, feeling his own harden further in his trousers.

“That was fantastic. You’re so fucking sexy.” Bill got up, used a nearby tissue to clean himself sloppily, and pulled his pants and trousers up. “Now you, you gorgeous thing.”

Sherlock finally looked into his eyes, smiled a bit sadly, let Bill undo his trousers and push him into the chair.

A short time later, as Sherlock came back to himself, he pulled up his pants and trousers, tucking his shirt in. Bill looked slightly smug when Sherlock glanced over. He supposed he deserved that. He was surprisingly talented.

“Sherlock,” Bill said softly, taking his hand, “Thank you. It was lovely meeting you. Do you think we could do this again sometime? Maybe have dinner first?”

“No,” he said quietly, not unkindly, and with sympathy. He walked to the door, put on his scarf and coat.

“I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t offend you,” Bill seemed lost, “I thought you enjoyed yourself.”

“I did,” he started, “I just…” Sherlock didn’t know how to do this. He didn’t know how to say, _I’m in love with someone else and I thought your height and age and grey hair would help me forget that I need him like air_. “I enjoyed myself and I thank you.” Sherlock walked over to Bill, placed a chaste kiss on his lips, and turned and walked out of the flat, closing the door softly behind him.

It was late when Sherlock walked quietly up the stairs to 221B. John had left the lamp on in the lounge. Sherlock didn’t know why he did that, he could make his way around using the light from the street lamps. Sherlock supposed it was considerate. John was considerate. John considered Sherlock. Sherlock had learned from John that it felt good when someone looked out for you. Anyone else in his life who claimed to look out for him (Mycroft) seemed to have an ulterior motive for doing so. But John did it because he was kind. Sherlock loved John because he was one of the only people who ever showed him true kindness.

Sherlock removed his scarf and the Belstaff, hung them both inside the doorway and made his way to the bathroom. He removed all of his clothing. His pants were still slightly damp because he had pulled them on so quickly after they had finished. Sherlock winced, then reached into the shower and turned the water as hot as he could stand it. He told himself he wasn’t actively avoiding the mirror so he did not see that his lips were slightly more pink than usual and puffy. He fully pulled back the curtain and stepped under the warm spray. He tried to concentrate on the feeling of the water pounding the back of his head, and not think about Bill’s hands on him. It had been too intimate. Bill was very handsome and treated Sherlock with undeserved tenderness. Sherlock had wanted to please Bill. Sherlock had wanted to to forget John. One happened, one didn’t.

Sherlock washed thoroughly. Bill’s mouth around Sherlock’s cock had felt amazing in the moment, but immediately after he wanted to be alone, to be rid of the earnest look on his face. Sherlock had seen through Bill the moment they met. He wanted something more than a random tryst, he was searching for connection, using his superior oral skills to try to lure in a stranger. Sherlock saw it and tried to be sympathetic but his heart belonged to another.

He sighed, turned off the water, toweled off and shrugged his long arms into his dressing gown. He walked into his room, towel twisted around his head like at a beauty shop. He shed the towel and dressing gown, and slipped beneath the sheets.

It hadn’t worked. He ached for John to be with him. He ached to touch John’s skin, to sweep his lips across his temple and feel the greying hair. He ached to wrap his arms around John and express his love with body and mind. He knew it would be amazing, that they would fit perfectly together. That they would breathe in sync, their sweat would mingle sweetly, they would fall asleep peacefully and sleep like the dead. He longed to wake up to a warm and rumpled John Watson under his sheets.

How he was feeling now that his encounter with Bill was over, was the exact opposite of what he had wanted to happen.

He retreated into his mind palace, went into John’s wing. He found John there, smiling gently at him. He walked over, sat down next to him, and took his hand. He stayed in his mind palace holding John’s hand until he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I am [onesmallfamily](http://onesmallfamily.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.


	3. Chapter 3

John was in bed when Sherlock came home, but he was not asleep. He knew Sherlock could take care of himself, but he had been guarded about where he was going. John couldn’t help if he felt a slight undercurrent of worry the whole time he was trying to answer blog comments, or watch telly, or do whatever else he did that night to keep his mind off of Sherlock’s whereabouts.

He heard the door open, a few quiet footsteps, the bathroom door shutting, and the pipes knocking as Sherlock turned the shower on. Sherlock had showered right before he went out. John pondered why he was showering again. Had he gone to Bart’s to harass Molly for body parts and ended up smelling like embalming fluid? He had never cared about that before. Had he met some of his homeless network and decided that the risk of staph infection was greater than usual? No. That didn’t seem right and John knew it.

John knew why he was showering again, he somehow knew in his bones. There was only one reason to shower again. Sherlock had met someone and had sex with that someone. The shock of this development flooded his extremities with adrenaline.

 _He’s mine_ , John’s brain unhelpfully supplied, as his stomach churned with angry possessiveness. John rolled over and hugged his pillow tighter, burying his head and letting loose a frustrated cry. He tried to calm down but he knew it was futile. How could this happen? Someone had touched Sherlock, someone who was probably gorgeous and sexy and not John.

John wondered if he had enjoyed it, he wondered what Sherlock liked, he wondered if it was a man or a woman. He thought bitterly again that he knew nothing about Sherlock’s sexual preferences or his past experiences. He assumed he didn’t have any. Tonight had proven him wrong. Heart wrenchingly, terribly, horribly wrong.

Disregarding sleep, he reached over to his phone, which was charging on the bedside table. He opened Grindr, read what he wrote, fixed one spelling error, and hit the button to post his profile. If Sherlock was going to “get some”, John might as well try too.

Immediately his phone started buzzing with messages, ranging from specific enquiries about sexual positions to casual messages with non-specific greetings. He scrolled through the messages. So many gorgeous bodies and body parts. They were mostly beautiful, but some were so crass, that even John’s entire military career couldn’t have prepared him.

He found one profile where the photo was similar to his. The photo showed the man’s whole body. He was crossing the finish line at a race, with a huge exhausted grin. He was stunning with an olive complexion, brown eyes, black hair, and a neatly trimmed beard. He looked like he could have been a model.

The message from _James_Jam_ said, “Do you like to run? It looks like you are built for it. Would you be up for a jog in the park and coffee?” John thought that invite was just different enough and that James, if that was his name, was just gorgeous enough to answer the message.

After a few more texts, and an enthusiastic reply from James ( _yes, it was his name_ ) once he had seen John’s face, and they arranged to meet the next day at the path into Regent’s Park just off Baker Street.

John arrived first. He wore black sweatpants, a black zippered sweatshirt with a hood, and a white t-shirt underneath. He wasn’t particularly stylish, but it was a newer track suit that would be presentable for coffee afterwards. James arrived in skin tight jogging pants and a bright yellow sweatshirt. The sweatshirt generally hung at hip level, but when they stretched, John couldn’t help but check out his lower half. He had a rock hard arse with strong divots on each side, just behind his sharp hips. From the front, John could tell that he was trying to be discreet, probably wearing another layer of spandex. But the heft underneath couldn’t be fully tamed, and John looked his fill as James twisted into a stretch with his head facing away.

John thought he was very lucky to be on a date with a stunningly fit, obviously well-hung, bloke.

They jogged through the park at an easy pace. After only about 20 minutes, they arrived at a coffee shop that James declared, “One of the best for Italian roast.”

John was glad to be done jogging. He had stamina, and could keep up with James, but he was really interested in getting to know more about him, and preferred to do it before he was red-faced and soaked with sweat.

James insisted on buying their coffees, and they sat at a small table in the corner. On their short run they had talked about rugby mostly, and a bit about living on Baker Street. James hadn’t volunteered where he lived.

“So what do you do for a living, John?”

“Well, I’m a doctor,” he started. James made an approving noise. “And I also, um, work with a consulting detective. He’s my flatmate.”

“What is a consulting detective?”

“He’s a huge pain in my arse most of the time,” John smiled, unable to keep the fondness from his voice. “He invented the job. He helps the police solve crimes. He’s brilliant at looking at people or crime scenes and deducing the history, the motives, everything behind the scenes. It’s an amazing skill that he’s taught himself over many years. It’s really quite valuable. He’s saved many lives.”

“Sounds interesting. And how exactly do you help him?”

John had to think about that for a minute. Sherlock had been a consulting detective long before John came along, but somehow Sherlock needed him. He had asked him to accompany him to a crime scene straight away. He had shown John respect, in his own Sherlockian way, from the very beginning. Everyone who knew Sherlock had told John how unusual it was for him to have a friend, and for that friend to still be hanging around.

“I can sometimes help with my medical knowledge, and just generally I am a sounding board and I ask a lot of questions. Mostly, I guess, I help him to think more clearly.” John didn’t add anything about protecting Sherlock’s life with body and weapon.

“Sounds interesting,” James repeated, actually not sounding all that interested anymore.

John didn’t want to talk about Sherlock anymore. That was the whole point, he needed to forget about Sherlock, and very soon. John needed to seduce this gorgeous athlete, so it was time to turn the wattage up and give him the full John Watson.

All in, he decided to go for direct and bold. He leaned forward, cocked his head, and while looking at James from under long blonde eyelashes, he slid his tongue across his bottom lip and asked, “What are you into, James? Because I’d very much like to get out of here and find out how I can make you happy today.”

James stared into John’s eyes, dropped his chin slightly, and parted his gorgeous lips. He stared at John with clear want on his face. In a few seconds of heated eye contact, something shuttered behind James’ eyes. He cleared his throat, closed his lips into a sad line, and sat up straighter in his chair.

John had him, then he lost him. He stayed as he was, never breaking eye contact, letting James tell him what was wrong.

“John, that was...you are extremely attractive, and I am very tempted,” he trailed off quietly. “But I am very much looking to find someone...to date. Someone looking for a serious relationship,” James leaned forward, clasped his hands together on the table, and looked at John hopefully, “Would you be willing to take it slow with me, John?.”

John’s stomach sank. He had really wanted to get his hands, and tongue, on that rock hard body. “Now I’m the one to be tempted,” he said roughly. “You are gorgeous. But I’m really looking for a casual thing. You see, I’m sort of on the rebound, and I was sort of hoping to take a break from dating.”

“I understand. No hard feelings, huh?”

That was easy for James to say. John had some feelings in hard places that began as soon as he’d seen James in those jogging tights. But he knew that the mutual attraction was only physical, he could tell. There was no point in dating James. He was looking for something else.

“No, of course not. It was very nice to meet you.” John stood and shook his hand. Now that James’ body was not an option, he couldn’t wait to get out of there. “Thank you for the coffee.”

“It was nice to meet you too, John. I have a feeling you will have no problem getting what you are looking for,” He grinned shyly.

“Thank you, same to you.”

John turned and walked out of the coffee shop. After a few minutes, he sped up into a fast run, heading back to Baker Street through Regent’s Park. He needed to sweat out some of his frustration. He fought bitterness as he thought he might be the only guy on Grindr looking for a shag who ended up turning down the chance to date a supermodel athlete. _What luck_.

He bounded up the stairs and entered the lounge out of breath and sweaty. Sherlock walked out of his room in his typical dress. Dark suit, no tie, THE aubergine shirt. John loved that shirt. He was wearing cologne again.

Sherlock froze and stared at John. John’s breathing had evened out but he was still wet and was sure his face was red with exertion. He stared back at Sherlock, and the longer it went on, one side of his mouth crept up and one eyebrow cocked, curious as to why Sherlock was staring. After about four seconds, Sherlock blinked rapidly, then looked down to adjust his cuffs, and said, “John. You’re dripping on the floor.”

John looked down, “Shit.” He turned and walked into the kitchen. He unzipped the sweatshirt, took it off, using it to wipe some sweat from his brow. He headed back into the lounge. Sherlock looked up and hesitated slightly, letting his eyes linger over John’s torso covered in only a soaking wet undershirt.

“I’m glad to see you exercising. You were slow during that last chase in Southwark.”

“Ta,” John rolled his eyes. “Where are you going?” It was early evening, and Sherlock was clearly meeting someone again. John wondered who it was, or if it was the same person as the last time. A spear of panic went through John at the thought of Sherlock finding someone else he liked to spend time with.

“Bart’s, then out.”

“A case? Need my help?”

“No, Molly has some test results for me. See you later.”

John stayed silent and watched Sherlock go. He scrubbed one hand over his face, sighing quietly. Frustrated, he had a sudden horrifying urge to cry. Disgusted with himself, he marched into the loo, stripped down, and showered in the hottest water he could stand. Sherlock had left him again, and was going out to let someone touch him. He was going to touch someone. That mouth, those long expressive fingers, were going to be on some undeserving body this night. He stood under the spray and wondered if he was losing his friend, the most important person in his life, the man he loved more than himself. If a few salty tears went down the drain with the tap water, then no one had to know about that.

After his shower, he felt mildly better. After the disaster with James, he resolved to find a guy who was guaranteed to be down for a good shag. The lurid messages he had been receiving suggested that finding someone ready for a casual encounter should be fairly easy. The sooner, the better.

\---------oo----~----oo---------

He had almost given himself away. He’d have to be more careful. Seeing John’s sweat, a part of his body that was actually consumable, on display, was almost too much for Sherlock. His eyes alighted on John’s form as he walked in the door, and then what seemed like minutes later, he blinked, trying to rid himself of the pictures flashing through his mind of a glistening John splayed out for him to rub and taste and smell. John had surely noticed, so he quickly reprimanded him about dripping on the floor for no reason.

Then it almost happened again.  _ How can you be so stupid?! _ The way the wet, translucent cotton had clung to John’s strong pectoral muscles, nipples peaked and pink. Sherlock was aware he was staring, and covered it with an insult about his fitness. It would niggle at the back of John’s mind, always self-conscious about his few years on Sherlock. He hoped it was distracting enough that John wouldn’t remember Sherlock’s lustful eyes.

As he walked to the corner, he mused that his “date”, Chris, a bisexual in an open relationship with a woman, might benefit from John’s unintentional display earlier. He was keyed up and ready for some relief and release. He hailed a cab easily, and made his way to the hotel in Kensington. Chris and he had negotiated a specific encounter, with a specific location. It had been remarkably easy.

Sherlock’s cab pulled up in front of the Hoxton Hotel. Sherlock had chosen the hotel for its relatively inexpensive price and modern rooms. No one owed him favors there, so he doubted he’d run into anyone who knew him. Chris texted, he was already there and in the bar. Sherlock took the opportunity to check into the hotel, got one key, and walked towards the restaurant. The place was too hip, but still comfortable, with a crowd much younger than himself or his date. 

Chris had been very direct in his messages to Sherlock. Sherlock appreciated the candor, and liked his looks. He was taller than John and had a longer, more aquiline nose, but he was blonde, with bright blue eyes, and a strong jawline. He spotted him straight away, looking very fit in black trousers and a light blue button down that strained across his chest. His sleeves were rolled up and he was sporting a day or two’s beard growth. Sherlock observed him swallow a gulp of his pint.  _ Yes, he’ll do quite nicely _ .

Sherlock walked over to Chris, introduced himself, and they quickly headed for the room. Once inside, Chris grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and pulled him into a deep, hard kiss. Sherlock was slightly taken aback at the lack of conversation, but he decided he prefered it that way. After all, they had negotiated this encounter. Expectations were clear.

Soon their bodies were pressed from knee to chest in a tight embrace. Both men let their hands wander to grope an arse cheek, or tweak a nipple. Their kisses were insistent and wet. Sherlock quickly found his brain shutting down, simply letting his body take over to enjoy the sensation of a warm firm body pressed against his and the promise of oblivion through physical pleasure. Being of equivalent height, their hard cocks aligned and thrusted against one another. 

Something in the back of Sherlock’s mind raised a quiet alarm and forced him to focus on the frottage, rather than the bruising kisses he was quite enjoying. He pulled away and Chris immediately latched onto Sherlock’s neck and started laving his tongue over his carotid pulse, kissing and sucking lightly. Sherlock was momentarily distracted. Neck kisses made his knees weak and skin pebble with goose flesh. It took him a second to remember why he had pulled away, but it came back to him as he let his hand drift down and cup Chris’ erection over his trousers. 

_ Oh. Oh my. Well, that is going to be a problem. _

“Um,” he uttered in a rare moment devoid of eloquence. “Uh.” Right then, Chris opened his lips wide, wetly lavishing the skin beneath his left ear, while simultaneously stroking Sherlock’s cock and squeezing his left glute. “Oh, fuck,” Sherlock sighed.

“You are so delicious. I can’t wait to fuck you,” Chris said, punctuating his statement with more squeezes. Sherlock moaned as Chris continued to squeeze and lick.

“Yes, about that.” Sherlock stilled his hands and lifted them away from Chris’ body. 

Chris pulled back to look into Sherlock’s eyes, questioning.

Sherlock’s hand was still on Chris’ trousers over his erection. “May I?”

Chris smirked and waved his hand towards his groin, a clear invitation.

Sherlock used both hands to undo his date’s flies. He reached down into Chris’ pants and pulled out his very erect, very large cock. He stared down with curiosity and a thrill that made his own erection pulse once against his own flies. 

“This is very large.” he said solemnly, not taking his eyes off of his erection. It was 18 cm long, 15.5 cm in girth. 

Chris chuckled lowly, “I have been told.”

“I mean,” he started, “I am fairly certain that I am a ‘bottom’ but I am not sure that I can handle this.”

“What do you mean ‘fairly certain’, I thought we talked about this?”

“Yes, my practical experience is quite limited, and I know I like anal stimulation. But this, however…” He never loosened his grip, nor took his eyes off of Chris’ penis.

“Oh.” He sounded disappointed. 

_ He’s heard this before. _ “I’m sorry, I seem to have overlooked an important detail that was necessary for me to know before our plans were made.”

“No, I’m sorry,” erection still in Sherlock’s hand, but flagging, “I should have said. It’s been an issue in the past with men.”

He looked up into Chris’ eyes and felt something close to empathy. Chris possessed a trait that was a burden to some, a prize to others. Some were revolted, some were in awe. He was not revolted, and in fact, his sympathetic nervous system was throwing out symptoms (heavy breathing, dilated pupils) that the too-large cock in his hand was a huge fucking turn-on. 

“Let’s do something else,” Sherlock suggested, stroking from base to tip, twice with a firm grip. 

Chris moaned, staring into Sherlock’s eyes. 

“Lube, frottage, orgasms,” Sherlock proposed. “It isn’t what we planned but it is what I can offer tonight.” 

Chris put his hand on Sherlock’s neck and pulled him into a hot, wet kiss. Sherlock had his answer and his body responded just as it should with a big beautiful cock in his right hand, sandy blonde hair clutched in his left. They continued sloppy kisses with eyes closed, soon divesting each other of all clothing. 

“Bed,” Chris groaned.

Sherlock pushed him back towards the bed. Chris laid down on his back, while Sherlock hovered on all fours, naked, with his cock heavy and full, brushing Chris’ shins. His mouth hovered over his groin. He couldn’t resist putting his full lips sideways on Chris’ erection. Chris moaned, hand flying immediately to Sherlock’s scalp, entwining fingers into curls. Sherlock hummed his approval. He wasn’t going to get Chris off like this. But to have his lips and tongue slowly moving up and down this glorious cock, slicking it with saliva, was divine. 

Once he had devoted enough time for his oral fixation, he moved up Chris’ body to align their erections together and shallowly thrust. Sherlock kissed and sucked Chris’ neck, hoping he would understand that Sherlock would like him to do the same. He caught on immediately, latching onto Sherlock’s neck with delicious licks and light sucks. Sherlock wondered if there would be a mark left.  _ Would John notice? _ Just the thought of John knowing what Sherlock had done, fantasizing that he would be jealous, shot a thrill up his spine and a pulse from his lower stomach to the tip of his cock. 

They thrust together, cocks slick from Sherlock’s mouth. Each was mouthing at the other’s neck sloppily. Sherlock licked his palm and moved his large hand between their bodies to grip them both tightly. They moaned at the contact and within seconds Chris was coming, biting almost painfully at Sherlock’s neck. 

Sherlock felt the familiar swell of heat and pressure in his balls and he came silently, gritting his teeth, riding the pleasurable waves. Almost immediately, he released them both and rolled away from Chris to sit on the edge of the bed. Chris was still breathing heavily as Sherlock got up and walked into the bathroom. He grabbed a towel, wiped his stomach as best he could, and dropped it onto the floor. He figured that the courteous thing was to bring Chris a towel, which he did.

Chris watched as Sherlock made his way back towards the bed, but Sherlock didn’t make direct eye contact. 

“I hope that was still enjoyable.” 

“Yes.”

“Well, I’d better…” but Chris didn’t finish his sentence, he merely took the towel from Sherlock, walked into the bathroom, and closed the door. 

Sherlock stared at the door wondering if their interaction was normal. Sherlock didn’t understand “normal” much of the time and decided he didn’t care to find out. He dressed quickly. Chris was in the shower and Sherlock tried to not feel vaguely insulted by that. After all, that would be the first thing he did when he got home.

Sherlock was shrugging on the Belstaff when Chris walked back into the room naked. 

Sherlock stared, taking in every detail. He had to admit Chris was aesthetically pleasing, and perhaps they even had similar temperaments and views on sentiment. Chris had been quite agreeable, from his directness, to his blue eyes, to his beautifully large cock. 

“I wonder if you might like to meet again? Try something else, maybe work our way up to…” 

Sherlock’s eyes drifted slowly up from Chris’ feet all the way to his blue eyes. “Perhaps,” he smiled.

“I’ll text you.”

“All right.” 

Sherlock walked out of the room without looking back. He was relaxed and decided to walk a while before looking for a cab. Perhaps it would be good to see Chris again, maybe even on a regular basis. He wondered if access to regular partnered sexual release would be the key to forgetting about his pathetic pining for John. 

_ John _ . 

His want made his heart ache just at the thought of him. In that moment, Sherlock knew it would never be enough to be with a man like Chris or Bill or any of the other beautiful, sexy, willing men on Grindr. He knew, but it had to be. It had to be enough. Otherwise he would lose John as his best friend, his conductor of light, the most important and integral part of his life and work. 

He stopped himself from following those dark thoughts that lead only to sorrow. He had just shared a lovely orgasm with a warm, willing, and handsome man. It just had to be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I am [onesmallfamily](http://onesmallfamily.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.


	4. Chapter 4

Now Sherlock has been on at least two dates that he knew about. He’s known the man for months and as far as he knew he had not dated at all until the last couple of weeks. In fact, he seemed so distracted that he was paying little attention to John. He wasn’t exactly hurt by this, but he missed the man. He’d been up in his room again when Sherlock came home last night. Sherlock was quiet and showered just like the last time. He fought his gut, churning with possessive envy, and fell into a fitful sleep.

He woke the next morning, still sleepy, and very grumpy. “Fuck you,” he mumbled to the morning as he pulled himself out of bed and went to use the loo.

He scratched his arse absently as he emptied his bladder, and thought about Sherlock’s date. “Fuck,” he grumbled again. He washed his hands, splashed water on his face, toweled off and walked into the kitchen.

“Who are you talking to?”

John looked at Sherlock, confused. His brows furrowed as he took in the picture of his friend standing in the lounge, flipping through the newspaper, which rested on their table. Oh. He had been cursing out loud. Sherlock had probably heard, with his freakishly good aural sense.

John didn’t answer. Sherlock looked over at him. He swept his eyes up and down John’s form as he watched. John secretly loved being scanned and deduced by Sherlock, despite the fear of being found out. One side of Sherlock’s mouth quirked up and he looked back down to the newspaper.

John made tea for them both, as usual. He sat at the table and picked up a discarded part of the newspaper.

Sherlock turned towards the window and picked up his violin. He started to play an achingly beautiful song, slow and melodic. He kept looking out the window, giving John and alternating view of his back and profile as he shifted slightly with the music. His blue silk dressing gown hung askew revealing the long line of his neck as he played.

Now it was John’s turn to look. Simply put, Sherlock left him breathless. He was brilliant, beautiful, funny, talented, and luckily he called John his friend. He was honored and humbled by that. It was the most important relationship he had ever had. _How could I not fall desperately in love with this amazing man?_ They fit like lock and key from the moment they met.

John would not do anything, ever, to jeopardize their friendship.

John got up, placed his teacup in the sink, and walked up the stairs to his room. He knew by the sound of the violin, Sherlock had turned to watch him go.

He quietly shut the door to his room. He surprised himself with a choked sob that issued forth without warning. He hung his head, so chin met chest, and sighed deeply. This had to stop. He had never felt more out of control. He was Captain John Watson, for fuck’s sake. It was time to stop this futile yearning.

He picked up his phone and opened the Grindr app.

The last message was from a user named _6sporto_ whose message said, “Gorgeous legs. I’d love to see the rest of you.” The profile picture revealed that _6sporto_ was slim, brunette, with gorgeous long fingers. John immediately thought of Sherlock’s hands, and hit reply, typing a message in the affirmative. The buzz of excitement he got just from a random guy’s interest was enough to improve his mood slightly. John was ready to move past this ridiculous desire for Sherlock, and he thought he knew just how to do it. _Time to be a bit of a slag_.

\---------oo----~----oo---------

Several days later, Sherlock was getting many new messages on the app. He also got a text from Bill, but he politely declined his offer of meeting for drinks. He thought that would probably put him off for good. He wondered if he should delete his profile, delete the app from his phone. His encounter with Bill, while physically pleasurable, did nothing to help his hunger for John wane. His encounter with Chris had been much easier, and he was still contemplating a second go. But it hadn’t really changed anything about his feelings.

He remembered his three options for dealing with his unreturned love for John, and frowned. He pretty much had no choice but to follow through and see if his plan would work. After all, two data points was a dismal sample size for any scientific study. Three data points was too small also, but he didn’t think he could stand more than that if each encounter was similar to the last. He would go out one more time and if nothing changed, he would rethink this possibly absurd plan.

Sherlock was in the kitchen with goggles, a blow torch, a beaker with water from the Thames, and two pigs ears, when John came downstairs. Sherlock didn’t look up at first, but whipped his head around to look at John when he caught a whiff of cologne. Sherlock scanned John’s form. Freshly showered. Cologne. Hair neat. Second shave of the day. Face soft. Dark blue cashmere jumper with just a vest underneath. THE jeans. Those jeans. They highlighted John’s thighs and arse, and they devastated Sherlock each time he wore them. Date shoes.

John shrugged on his Barbour jacket and finally looked up at Sherlock who was not looking at his face, but was staring at his crotch in THE jeans.

John shifted from side to side, cleared his throat, turned and pulled on his leather gloves. Sherlock recovered enough to look at the floor by John’s feet before turning around and face the cabinets.

“I’ll be back later.”

“Date, John?”

“Um, yes.”

“You haven’t met her yet, so what? Pulled her online?” He smirked to himself, “I suppose that’s fairly easy to do these days.”

“You’re...I don’t know how you know, but yes, we met online.”

“If you’d met her at work, or on the tube, or at Tesco, I would’ve seen the initial elation you get when you first persuade a woman to have to drinks or dinner with you.”

“Right, as always.” He rolled his eyes, “See you later. Don’t wait up.” John winked and walked out the door.

Sherlock stood there for a moment, still holding the blow torch. He turned it off and set it down. He sat down heavily on the chair at the table. John was going on a date, and he winked at Sherlock. That was cheeky. He was confused by it. What was not confusing were his viscerally possessive feelings towards John. He was achingly familiar with those feelings.

The experiment no longer held his interest. He carefully wrapped the pig’s ears and placed them on the labeled refrigerator shelf. He set the beaker of Thames water next to it, put the blow torch and goggles away, and retreated to his room. He got undressed and and slipped under the sheets nude. It was only about half eight but he was interested in oblivion. A place where he could not picture John Watson fucking someone else.

He grabbed his phone and opened the app. He needed to choose encounter number three. He scrolled through the messages. There were a few mildly interesting candidates. His eyelids grew heavy despite the early hour.

Sherlock was awakened when he heard footsteps in the lounge. He raced out of bed and was just about to open the bedroom door, when his brain caught up to his hands. He was still nude and could not confront John that way, it wouldn’t do. He grabbed his blue dressing gown, shrugged it on, and secured the sash tightly. He found John in the kitchen with a glass of water, looking at his phone, and humming quietly.

“John.”

“Sherlock.” John turned slowly, pocketing his phone, and looked at him, “Were you sleeping?”

Sherlock barely registered that John was asking him a question. He didn’t answer. Instead he scanned John for evidence of who and what happened on his date. Date shoes, re-tied. THE jeans, looking devastating as ever. Cashmere sweater. No vest. Where had his vest gone? Bruise, left collarbone barely visible under the sweater. Bruise, behind right ear mostly covered by greying blonde hair that had not been cut for two months. Face relaxed, a small but fond smile. Lips pink, slightly swollen. Area around lips and jaw slightly red, almost like a rash but too subtle. Midnight blue eyes sparkling, but he also looked tired and a tad smug.

Sherlock’s evidence gathering took two seconds. He answered, a bit defensively, “Yes, I was tired. Barely slept last night. Fine now.” With that, he turned and walked over to the coffee table, grabbed his laptop, went into his bedroom and shut the door.

\---------oo----~----oo---------

When John arrived at the agreed upon address, he took one look at _6sporto_ , whose real name was Zach, and thanked every god he didn’t believe in. He didn’t do his photo justice. John thought he had looked a little awkward in the full body shot he’d sent, like a bit of a nerd. No, Zach was stunning with a friendly warm smile that lit up his entire face, and crinkled the side of his eyes. He was smart, with an easy laugh. John was immediately attracted to him. He couldn’t imagine that anyone wouldn’t be.

Zach turned out to be as sexy as he was gorgeous. They wasted little time on small talk, and got down to what they were both there to do. From their first kiss, nothing was tentative. Each was a capable, and as it turned out, pretty compatible lover. It was over fairly quickly, and they had shared a glass of wine and relaxed, if shallow, conversation after. John hadn’t wanted to hang about, but he felt comfortable and warm after their shared orgasms. After about fifteen minutes, John begged off.

John reached over, placed his hand on Zach’s neck, and leaned in for a chaste kiss on the side of his mouth.

“Thank you, Zach. This was fun.” John looked into dark black eyes looking up at him through impossibly thick eyelashes, and sighed, “You are gorgeous. I hope we can do it again.”

“I hope so too, John.”

John removed his hand, broke eye contact, stood up, and walked to the door where his coat was hung. Zach followed him to the door and opened it to the hallway. John put on his coat, turned back to Zach and said, “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, John.”

John walked out the door without a look back and heard the door softly close behind him.

He sighed. On the way home, he thought of their moans, kisses, cocks, sweat, their urgency, beautiful friction. He hadn’t pretended that Zach was Sherlock and he had still enjoyed himself. It was lovely to have no ties, a gorgeous man, with a similar motivation. It was so easy. They both knew what to expect, what each other wanted. John supposed that was the advantage of finding a date on Grindr. It was so transparent. And so opposite of what he had with Sherlock.

At least on his part, his feelings for Sherlock meant that their friendship, while fulfilling and the penultimate priority in John’s life, was completely muddied and opaque. He didn’t know Sherlock’s heart. He didn’t know what Sherlock was thinking about 95 percent of the time. One reason that the friendship worked at all was because they trusted each other with their lives. The trust, the loyalty, the genuine affection were all reasons why their friendship worked, despite John being hopelessly in love with the madman.

John unlocked the door on Baker St. and quietly made his way up to 221B. He stepped into the lounge, fully expecting Sherlock to be on the couch or at the kitchen table conducting some kind of experiment. But the flat was quiet, light on in the lounge. He took off his jacket and shoes, and padded into the kitchen. He distractedly poured himself a glass of water, checking his messages.

John heard rustling and footsteps coming from Sherlock’s bedroom. It must have been quite loud for John to hear it beyond the door. A slight hesitation, then Sherlock opened the door.

“John,” he rumbled. John was disappointed that he had woken Sherlock, but he knew he couldn’t resist the chance to deduce who, what, and where John had been that evening. He resigned himself to being deduced and turned around to look at Sherlock.

As he turned and caught sight of Sherlock, with slightly red, puffy eyes, curly hair flying every which way. His blue silk dressing gown skimmed every bulge and bump underneath, leaving little to John’s imagination, which was far-reaching. John was barely able to contain the gasp as his breath was stolen at the sight of a sleep-rumpled, naked-but-for-silk Sherlock.

“Sherlock,” he said, voice steadier than he felt. “Have you been sleeping?” He knew how Sherlock hated when he stated the obvious and hoped it would distract him from his deductions.

Sherlock responded defensively, then took his laptop back to his room.

John stood in the kitchen, staring at Sherlock’s bedroom door. His mood deflated, now he just felt the empty longing that always accompanied a jolt of affection for his beautiful friend.

He was glad Sherlock had gotten some sleep, he thought he should probably get some himself. He walked upstairs to his room, he could wait until tomorrow for a shower. He undressed slowly, noting a few light bruises on his skin. He wondered if Sherlock had noticed them. He didn’t know if it would be worse if he had noticed or hadn’t. He plugged in his phone to charge next to the bed. He scooted under the cold sheets, lifting the blankets up to cover his head, and was asleep within five minutes of his head hitting the pillow. Unrequited love was exhausting.

\---------oo----~----oo---------

Sherlock’s observations of John and his date confused him. He had met someone online. He clearly had sex with the person he met. The redness around his mouth suggested some kind of abrasive contact, like with a beard.

But he was not gay, as had been clearly and defensively stated many, many times. Sometimes at volume.

So could there be “beard” burn from pubic hair? Perhaps John’s date had shaved a few days ago, John had performed cunnilingus, and it chafed. Sherlock had no experience with women, but he thought that John probably wouldn’t continue an activity like that for long if it had been uncomfortable. Perhaps he enjoyed the sensation? Perhaps the woman was responding so positively, John couldn’t stop. He was sure that John was an unselfish lover.

Then what about the vest? _The case of the missing vest_. Would a women keep it as a memento of the night? If so, it would seem to be overly sentimental for a person she met online and shared one sexual encounter. Perhaps she was trying to keep something of John’s to have an excuse to see him again. That didn’t make sense. It wasn’t as if he left his keys, or an expensive sweater. A vest wouldn’t be something John would miss.

Deep down, Sherlock knew that he was trying to find a reason to make John’s date a woman. He also knew that all evidence suggested that John’s date was a man. It would account for the irritation of the skin around his lips. It would account for the missing vest, probably used for hasty clean-up.

A man. John had gone online, and met a man. He went on a date with a man. He had sex with a man. _It’s always something_ , Sherlock thought bitterly.

He had no idea what to do. He didn’t know if his plan to distract himself with casual sexual encounters was completely pointless now that he suspected, strongly, that John was bisexual. His trysts, although physically pleasurable, hadn’t diminished his attraction to John. And now Sherlock knew that John could be sexually attracted to facial hair, flat chests, and hard cocks.

If John was bisexual, then Sherlock was right to think that he was flirting with him that first night at Angelo’s. The gorgeous army doctor had affected his transport within hours of meeting him, which had never happened to Sherlock in his entire life. That night, the way his stomach had swooped when he realized John was flirting, had scared him to the core. When Sherlock idiotically put him off, John acted as if Sherlock had misunderstood. Often confused by social interactions, especially when he was one of the participants, he simply assumed that he was wrong that night.

John never provided another indication of his romantic interest in Sherlock. He could only conclude that John was not attracted to him after that first night. John may be into men, but he wasn't into Sherlock.

He did not sleep, and spent the rest of the night trying to convince himself that John’s bisexuality didn’t hurt him bone deep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please come find me in the blue hell - I am [onesmallfamily](http://onesmallfamily.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.


	5. Chapter 5

“Really? Can’t the jam be replaced just one time?” John muttered under his breath. He had woken early, feeling melancholy, wanting nothing more than the comfort of tea and toast with jam. John decided that he would go out for breakfast. It may do him good to go out, walk through the park, have a nice fry up that he didn’t have to make himself.

He had just finished his coffee when his meal arrived. He cut a piece of tomato, dipped it in the runny egg, shoved it into his mouth followed by a big bite of buttered toast. His phone buzzed.

_Client at 221B - SH_

_What is the case?_

_Melting laptop. Possible international espionage. Where are you? - SH_

_Breakfast. Be there in a few._

_Bring jam - SH_

John rolled his eyes. Of course the wanker wants jam, but he can’t be arsed to actually buy jam. John was not going to leave his plate so he finished and paid as quickly as he could. It was only about a 10 minute walk back to the flat. He entered the door and was immediately faced with a wild-eyed, pacing Sherlock.

“John!” he exclaimed, walking over to him, eyes flicking over his face, standing just a few inches too close.

“Yes, I’m here. Now tell me about the case.”

“Why did you leave? You didn’t tell me,” he pouted, “You weren’t here.”

“Sherlock. I’m a grown man and sometimes I like to take myself to breakfast.”

“That makes it sound like you were on a date with yourself.”

John had no response to this. Only Sherlock could think that someone could date himself, or that a victim could murder himself, for that matter.

John simply stared at Sherlock, knowing he would eventually tell John the pertinent details about the case.

“The client rang at half nine. Mrs. Hudson led her up,” Sherlock started. John listened to the way Sherlock laid out the client’s story, told him about his deductions regarding the client and her story, and finished by revealing his plan. John loved seeing Sherlock excited about a new case. It was so easy at the beginning. All anticipation, the expectation of intrigue and adventure. Sherlock was at his most boyish at the beginning of a case, and John adored him. He got caught up in the deductions and would basically follow him anywhere. John would always be there as long as Sherlock wanted him.

“All right, let’s go,” John said, and they were off clattering down the stairs, yelling to Mrs. Hudson that they were off out.

International espionage was indeed a large part of the case. In fact, they almost had to go to Prague but were stopped at the last minute, at 3 AM when Sherlock solved the case from the ticket counter at Heathrow. The case had almost been an eight, and John could tell that Sherlock was in top form, with brain clicking along at maximum speed. When the perpetrators were arrested in London, Prague, and Athens later that morning, Sherlock and John had waited to see that it was done and then collapsed into the back of a cab. John was so tired that he let his head fall to rest on Sherlock’s shoulder. He didn’t care, Sherlock smelled amazing, he wanted to be close, and his head felt so, so heavy. He closed his eyes. He must have dozed, because he next felt Sherlock’s long fingers gently sliding down his jaw to his chin.

“We’re home, John,” he said, almost whispering, just a hint of the baritone.

John lifted his head, blinked, and looked at Sherlock’s face. He saw the look Sherlock only gave to him. It wasn’t often, but it was his favorite. His face was so soft and open. He smiled very slightly and held John’s gaze with a look of bemused affection. He dropped his hand as John became more awake. John felt its cold absence acutely. He was the first to look away, “Come on John, let’s get you to bed.”

John smirked to himself. He had doubted that Sherlock had any idea that what he said sounded suggestive at all. John stumbled through the door and up to his room with no more than a quiet “Night.” He thought about the case, and how brilliant Sherlock was, as he tried to think of a blog post title, and not about how much he physically ached to feel Sherlock’s fingers on his jaw again.

\---------oo----~----oo---------

The case had been interesting, but when Sherlock thought back on the night, he relished the memory of the weight of John’s sleepy head on his shoulder. When he was fairly sure John was asleep, he had buried his nose in grey blonde hair and inhaled deeply. When the cab came to a stop and John hadn’t woken, he indulged in a light touch from his forehead down the slope of his perfectly sloped nose, across his cheek, and down his jawline. Sherlock’s touch woke John eventually and his perfect half-lidded midnight eyes found his and he had to quickly school his face to something more fond and friendly than the absolute longing he actually felt.

A few days later he was lying on the couch with hands clasped beneath his chin while John pecked away comfortingly on his laptop. He supposed John thought he was in his mind palace. Little did he know that, indeed, he was _near_ his mind palace, saving small details in John’s rooms. He collected lip licks like the Crown collected diamonds, treating them with the same reverence, respect, and adoration. His simple two-finger typing was the staccato soundtrack beneath the cataloging of every breath, hum, lick, smirk, brow crease, sigh.

John’s phone buzzed. He frowned down at the screen, then quirked the smallest of smiles that Sherlock suspected only he would be able to see, knowing the man as he did.

John typed a few characters on his phone, then appeared to be scrolling through many pages. Once in awhile he would punch the screen with his finger, then type a few characters. Back to scrolling, he gasped, then laughed out loud.

“What’s funny?”

John visibly started, probably thinking he was virtually alone in the room.

“Nothing.”

John went back to his laptop, phone back in his pocket.

Sherlock hadn’t moved or spoken in almost two hours. He abandoned his study of John and thought about his third date. It had taken him a few days to adjust to the new idea that John was bisexual. In the end, he accepted this fact and decided that he needed to continue as planned. He sat up, blinked, grabbed his phone and opened Grindr. Present were the many new messages that Sherlock had become accustomed to seeing. He was either considered very attractive or there were many men on the app that simply played a numbers game. He didn’t consider himself particularly attractive so he suspected it was the latter.

He ignored the messages for once and scrolled through the profile photos. This time he was determined to not just answer messages, but be the initiating party. He could find someone suitable. He would arrange an encounter. He would get his third data point. At that point, he would re-evaluate the parameters of the experiment and adjust accordingly.

He scrolled through profile photos, in his normal quick manner, deducing each man with one word.

_Boring. Boring. Dull. Needy. Impotent. Unclean. John._

It took him a full second to register what his brain had just told him. He stared down at his screen at a photo, almost totally in silhouette. It was a side view of running legs, arse, torso, and one forearm which was wrapped around the ball. It was undoubtedly John. Sherlock would know those calves and forearms anywhere. He was less familiar with the thighs, but he found himself unable to look away.

After a few moments, he realized that he been holding his breath, and let it all out in one loud whoosh. John looked up from his laptop and frowned at the noise.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly and too loudly. He rose from the couch, walked to his room without looking at John, and closed the door behind him.

He stared at his phone. John was on Grindr. The little green light showed he was actually online right now. Had he pulled out his phone as soon as Sherlock left the room? He was not searchable by location, and neither was Sherlock, so he was sure John hadn’t seen his profile. And if he had, he doubted John would know it was him. After all, John saw but did not observe.

Not only was John bisexual, he was actively seeking casual sexual encounters with men. Using a phone app. Just like Sherlock.

He put down his phone. He couldn’t stand to look at the evidence of John’s desires ( _but not for me_ ) one more second.

He picked up his phone. He couldn’t stand to look away from muscular thighs. Delectable arse. Strong forearms. Sherlock could picture the flex of those forearms as his hands stroked along his body.

Oh, how he wanted. He wanted so badly to feel that touch. Now that he had awoken his body to pleasure with a partner, he wanted to explore all of his boundaries with his most trusted friend, his beloved blogger, the man he’d fallen hopelessly in love with. He stifled a frustrated tsk, just barely, and threw the phone onto the bed.

He glared at his phone, then retreated into his mind palace to speak with John.

“Why, John?” He asked shyly, “why don’t you want me?”

“I’m not gay,” said mind-palace-John.

“You’re bisexual.”

“I don’t want you because I am not gay and you are a sociopath.”

“You’re bisexual,” he repeated, “I make you tea. I label the things in the refrigerator for you. I play songs that you like. We enjoy each other’s company. I was willing to die with you at the swimming pool.” Sherlock knew he was pleading and probably sounded pathetic.

Mind-palace-John stood straight and looked away. Finally, he stated stiffly, “I don’t want you because although you may be flattered by my attention, you are married to your work.”

Sherlock gasped, retreating out of his own head, shocked as mind-palace-John repeated his own words. Those words still echoing in his ears.

John was attracted to him. John had tried to flirt with him their first night together. Sherlock had thought it at the time, but then after the many “not gay” declarations, he figured he’d been mistaken. But no, he thought maybe his mistake was not understanding how off-putting his actions and words have been over these past months.

Things were different now. John knew him. John killed people for him. John was as loyal as any friend could be. John thought he was funny. John thought he was childish. John thought he was a dick.

_He had been attracted to me at one time._

But was he still?

Sherlock grabbed for his phone and messaged _blackheath70_ before he could think his way out of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am [onesmallfamily](http://onesmallfamily.tumblr.com) on Tumblr. Thank you for reading this!


	6. Chapter 6

John decided he could not be in the same room with Sherlock, no matter how comatose he appeared, to look at his Grindr messages. Too many blokes were fond of sending dick pics. Not that John minded, but a little privacy was warranted. He also wanted to go back and really study _fairlyfrank_ ’s message with accompanying photos, plural. His message had shocked him into incredulous laughter, and of course his ever-curious friend had inquired.

Before he could look at the old messages, his phone buzzed with an incoming message.

He clicked on it and immediately looked at the photo first. The photo was of a lean torso, tight abdominal muscles, and gorgeously plump hips. John’s mouth filled with saliva and he swallowed hard. His message was short and unusual among the dick pics and lewd proposals.

“We are not who we think we are. We are what we hide. Are you hiding?”

John was affronted. He noted, incredulous, that this person also was not showing his face in his profile photo. What was the message implying? It was risky to send such a message, especially to someone clearly a part of the LGBT community. The words would surely be taken as an attack. The words implied a lack of honesty, a lack of bravery for ‘coming out’. The words were dangerous.

John loved dangerous, and although he was insulted, he was also curious. After all, he was getting used to being insulted regularly. He wondered if he would put up with it from someone other than Sherlock.

The heart of it was that _the_perfect_stranger_ was right. He was hiding. He never advertised his bisexuality. It was complicated, and he was from a different generation. He head heard people say all kinds of negative things about bisexuals. That they were actually gay and ashamed. That they were greedy. That they could never be loyal to one partner. That they were slags. Well, John was a private man and it really was nobody’s business. Still part of him longed to be unhidden.

Feeling the way he did about his sexy, beautiful, oblivious flatmate, the mask of heterosexuality was a necessity that John used like his long forgotten, equally detested, cane.

Part of him wished Sherlock would just see him already. He thought it was strange that he had not. Perhaps they were too close now? That first night Sherlock seemed to know, but rebuffed him. But for all of Sherlock’s brilliance, he’d never suspected anything after that night.

John sighed and concentrated on his phone. He was intrigued by the profile photo, the annoying question, even the username. The perfect stranger. John wondered if it meant that the man was interested in only anonymous interactions. The username could have various interpretations, and John was interested in what the man himself would say. He wasn’t sure why he found the whole thing so intriguing, but he decided to reply.

“I need to hide sometimes, it’s freeing.”

Almost immediately, _the_perfect_stranger_ replied. He must have been online already. “True. But I would quite like to see you.”

“Why?”

“Your thighs.”

“What about them?”

“I find them very attractive.”

John grinned. He knew he had nice thighs. “Thank you.” Then he attached a photo of his unsmiling face. He liked the photo because he looked serious and it showed off his dark blue eyes. “Still like what you see?”

“Oh yes, thank you.”

“Want to send me one of you?”

“No.”

“Okay. I’d like to see more of you though.”

“I’m sure you would, but I’d rather you see me in person. Would you like to have a drink with me?”

John wasn’t particularly picky about his potential romantic partner’s looks. The bloke was clearly fit. John looked at the torso photo again. He’d quite like to get his hands on those hips.

“I will have a drink with you. We’ll see if I like it.”

“There is a chance you won’t like it, but I sincerely hope that you will.”

“How do you know you will like me?”

His question went ignored, and when his phone buzzed it said, “We need to meet.”

He told John his name was William and they should meet at a small French restaurant in Mayfair. It was a place he and Sherlock had been once. They agreed to meet for a drink the next night.

John was skeptical about this one, but also curious, and flattered that the man had picked John. He walked downstairs and into the kitchen humming softly.

“Sherlock?”

There was no answer. John was not surprised.

“Sherlock, I’m making dinner and you’re going to eat some of it.”

“Yes, John.”

John jumped, and turned around startled by the fact that Sherlock was standing in the doorway and not lying on the couch, in his room, or even absent from the flat altogether like John had suspected.

“You scared me, you cock.”

Sherlock mumbled, “Sorry,” but did not stop looking at John’s face. He was sort of leering. He looked like he was trying to deduce what John had been doing in his room.

John relaxed his face into a mild smile, “All right. Now. You’re eating with me.”

“Yes, John.”

“You’re too agreeable. And stop looking at me like that.” John turned around and opened the refrigerator, moving things around on the shelves. “Now where is the chicken I bought on Tuesday?”

When he received no answer, he turned his head towards the doorway only to find that Sherlock had left as quietly as he had approached. John sighed.

After dinner, they sat together watching a documentary on classical composers that John thought was quite dull, but he didn’t mind. It was rare that Sherlock would sit with him like this. It was gorgeously domestic and by the end of the evening John had taken to sitting on his fists to restrain them from reaching out to touch Sherlock’s hand, thigh, hair. He decided that the next time he could get Sherlock to sit with him like this, he would put on a comedy. He so loved to hear and see Sherlock laughing.

John sat up and indulged in a swift pat on the knee as he said, “Well, ‘night,” He barely heard, “Goodnight, John,” as he walked up the stairs.

The next day John was more nervous to meet William that he should have been. He wondered why, but when he thought more about it, he figured that it must be the man’s honest, frankly confrontational, manner. He was a bit afraid of what a man like that could drag out of him. He didn’t want to be dishonest, but it wouldn’t do to expose his deepest feelings to a too-curious stranger.

John avoided Sherlock for most of the day. And strangely, it seemed Sherlock was avoiding him. Whenever John walked into the the kitchen to make tea, Sherlock would quietly get up from the desk or his chair and walk to another part of the flat. Once he even walked out the front door without the Belstaff. John reminded himself of his friend’s eccentric ways and brushed it off as “not odd.”

He showered and readied himself as he always did. John didn’t know if this evening would end in sex, but he thought about those hips and the arse he couldn’t fully see in the photo, and sincerely hoped it would.

After one last glance in the mirror, he walked downstairs and found Sherlock standing next to the desk, staring at him. He was wearing a snug-fitting light grey shirt with black buttons and black trousers. Over this, was his dark red dressing gown. John hated the strength of those black buttons and wished they’d give up their fight just once.

“Hey,” he said, looking away and grabbing his coat and gloves. “I’m going out, don’t wait up.”

“As if I ever do, John.”

John chuckled softly, and thought, “No, but I wish you would.” What he said instead was, “Anything on tonight?”

“I’ll be going to Bart’s. Molly texted. There’s a very interesting case of extreme hypertrichosis that I’ve only ever seen once before, and that was a male.”

“Oh,” John frowned, “that does sound interesting.” He hesitated slightly, feeling irritated that Sherlock would get such an interesting case on a night he had made plans. He would like to see the hirsute corpse. He turned to look at Sherlock. They locked eyes. One. Two. Three beats later. John finally spoke, but did not break eye contact, “Well, goodnight then.” He spoke very softly and with a hint of regret.

“See you later, John,” he softly replied, finally breaking eye contact, turning so the red dressing gown swished around him. His attention was elsewhere again, and John sighed as he headed down the stairs.

\---------oo----~----oo---------

Sherlock adored sitting with John on the couch, pretending to watch telly. John always tried to find something Sherlock would enjoy, and would fidget throughout the whole show. Sherlock catalogued and memorized every twitch. When the show was done, John hesitated briefly before turning off the telly, then placed his hand on Sherlock’s knee, patted it, then stood up and went to bed. The heat from John’s hand, and Sherlock’s surprise at the gesture, sent adrenaline shocks down to his toes. He also experienced a rather pleasant warm jolt in his lower abdomen. As he was concentrating on the heat dissipating from his knee, and willing the blood to rush away from his groin, John was halfway up the stairs before Sherlock could return his ‘goodnight’. Sherlock caught a glimpse of John’s arse and thighs climbing the stairs just before he reached the top.

Sherlock was very nervous about his Grindr message exchange with John. He thought he needed to provoke John to respond to him. He thought his profile photo was attractive, maybe someone would even think it was sexy. But he wanted to stand out. So he sent a message implying John was hiding something, and hoped it didn’t piss John off to the point he would ignore him.

But John, lovely perfect John, had been intrigued. He responded positively and wanted to meet him. Sherlock was elated. And terrified.

The next day Sherlock tried to avoid John. The truth was that he was so nervous about their date, whenever he looked at John his stomach flopped ominously. At one point, John had looked so adorable concentrating on his blog with tongue firmly between his lips, lost in thought, Sherlock had to get away. The closest door was the exit of 221b. So despite the cold, he simply walked out the door onto Baker Street. It was after about a minute, he realized it was freezing outside. He walked into Speedy’s and sat down. He didn’t order anything. The man behind the counter smiled at him but left him alone without comment.

He was desperately afraid that John would reject him and their entire friendship would be ruined. If John left Sherlock knew it would only be a matter of time before he would return to his mental and physical state pre-John. That meant that the risk Sherlock was taking for a chance to have everything with John was literally life or death.

He tried to focus on staying calm and being brave. He had a plan, now he needed to stick to it.

He walked back up to the flat feeling a bit more centered. He went into his room to choose an outfit and get ready for the shower. He chose the grey shirt and his best cut black suit. He showered slowly, taking time to thoroughly clean himself. It was a calming pre-date ritual that he hoped would not be in vain. He did not emerge from the bedroom until his hair was dry. He donned the red dressing gown, instead of his jacket, and waited for John to come downstairs.

They had agreed to meet for drinks at a casual restaurant in Mayfair. Sherlock loved the layout of the place with its meandering rooms and small alcoves where they could have some privacy. John walked down the stairs and immediately Sherlock looked towards him. He was wearing his casual date outfit. Jeans, button-down blue and white checked shirt, Loake brogues. He watched as his beloved reached for the ever-present Haversack coat.

John looked at him as he was putting on the coat, “Hey. I’m going out, don’t wait up.”

Sherlock arched his brow, lowered his chin slightly, and smiled in what he hoped looked flirtatious, “As if I ever do.” John paused slightly, smiling tightly, and inquired about Sherlock’s evening plans. Sherlock tested John by presenting a very interesting case waiting for him at St. Bart’s morgue. He wondered how badly John wanted to meet this “William”, and if he would choose him over spending time with Sherlock. He was not disappointed in John’s reaction. He seemed to hesitate. Sherlock worried for a wild moment that John would cancel his date with William. They stared at each other before John quietly bid Sherlock goodnight.

“See you later, John.”

As soon as he heard the downstairs door snick shut, he rushed back into his room, flung his dressing gown on the floor, and shrugged on his suit jacket. He took two large strides to the door and stopped abruptly. He turned, eyeing the dressing gown on the floor. Slowly, he walked back, picked it up, and hung it on a hook inside his wardrobe. It wouldn’t do to have his room look messy just in case John Watson was to see it later tonight. That thought made his stomach lurch ominously. He took a deep breath, turned, and walked into the lounge. He walked to the mirror over the fireplace and checked his appearance. Satisfied with what he saw, he strode over to the door, grabbed his scarf and the Belstaff and rushed down the stairs to the hallway. By the time he was out the door, his coat and scarf were securely in place. John would have taken the tube, giving Sherlock time to beat him to the restaurant in a cab.

\---------oo----~----oo---------

John walked to the Baker Street station and took the Bakerloo line to the Piccadilly line, exiting at Green Park. It was a short walk to the restaurant. John arrived a few minutes early. He knew that wasn’t really the “cool move” but he wanted to find a table and be able calm down a bit. He hadn’t felt this nervous with his other Grindr dates. Something was different about William, and he wanted to impress the man even though they hadn’t met. He admonished himself for having high hopes for tonight’s outcome. “Steady on, Watson,” he muttered to himself as he opened this front door. He was shown to a small table facing the front door. It was perfect, he’d be able to watch everyone who entered. Although William hadn’t shared a photo of his face, John had channeled Sherlock and deduced that he would be about 6 feet tall and very slim. His skin had seemed pale, but he couldn’t be sure that the photo wasn’t filtered in some way.

They had agreed to meet for drinks so when the waitress came with menus, John waved them off.

“I’m meeting someone for drinks,” he explained.

“Of course. Can I start you off with something now? Or would you like to wait?” John finally looked at her. She was a petite dark-skinned beauty with very long eyelashes, looking at him with a distinctly flirtatious gleam in her eye.

He smiled back, holding her eye contact. Of course, this gorgeous woman would flirt with him just as he was waiting for a date. Her obvious interest in John helped to calm him down and gave him a not-insignificant boost in confidence.

“I’ll have a scotch and water, love,” he winked. Her smile grew, they stared at each other for one long beat.

“Be right back with that.”

He watched her turn and immediately his eyes went to her incredible arse swaying, with attitude, as she walked towards the bar. Jesus, he thought, if William was a dud, maybe he could ask the barmaid out.

He ran his fingers through his hair and checked his watch. William was late. John considered being punctual a sign of respect for other people’s time. This William was getting more annoying every minute.

The server came back with his drink. He thanked her and asked, “What’s your name, love?”

She smiled prettily and said, “Zoe.”

“Thank you, Zoe.” He didn’t want to be caught flirting with Zoe if William walked in, but it made him feel good to interact with a beautiful woman like this.

Zoe walked away, smiling. John sipped his drink, gazed calmly around the restaurant, and waited for his date.

\---------oo----~----oo---------

Sherlock watched as John shamelessly flirted with the waitress. He had arrived before John, but had not entered through the front door, and was currently hidden in a side room that was not set up for food service. John had looked nervous before the waitress approached him, but a few minutes of talking with a pretty woman seemed to relax him. Sherlock shook his head fondly. Sometimes it seemed that John Watson forgot who he was. To Sherlock, he was the most desirable, bravest, most fascinating man on the planet. If he was lucky enough to ever call John his, he would spend every day making sure John wouldn’t forget.

Sherlock inhaled deeply, tightened his stomach muscles, thrust his shoulder blades together, summoned every bit of courage he could, and walked out from his hiding place.

He walked up to John’s table and sat down. John saw him the moment before he actually sat and frowned. His face flickered through several emotions, shock, confusion, what was it...amusement? And finally, fury.

“Sherlock,” he hissed, looking at the door. “What are you doing here?”

“John…” he started calmly.

“You followed me here. You need to go. Right. Fucking. Now.”

“John.”

“No, Sherlock. No. This is too much,” pointing his finger angrily, looking to the door, then towards the bar.

Sherlock stared at John, feeling exposed and vulnerable. He purposely dropped the cool mask he often wore, and let John see his earnest emotions. John’s face softened slightly looking into Sherlock’s eyes. He sat back in his chair and looked at the door again.

He quietly pleaded, “Sherlock, I need you to go.”

Sherlock did not look away as he quietly said, “William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am [onesmallfamily](http://onesmallfamily.tumblr.com) on Tumblr. Thank you for reading this!


	7. Chapter 7

John simply stared at him, trying to process what he just said. Sherlock clasped his hands together on the table and looked down at them. John did not take his eyes from Sherlock’s face, searching for some kind of meaning in what he said.

“What…,” he tried, but any more words he might want to say got caught in his throat.

Sherlock would not look up at him. "That's the whole of it. My name."

John was deeply confused. Why in the hell would Sherlock be here saying his name was William? “Sherlock, what is going on?”

He took a deep breath, and lifted his eyes to meet John, barely raising his chin. He looked so young, shy almost. “I found you.”

“You mean you followed me.”

Sherlock’s gaze intensified, looking at John pointedly, “No. I found you,” he said slowly, emphasizing each word.

John sucked in a sharp breath, his hand coming up to rub his forehead. It was all becoming very clear. Sherlock had seen his profile on Grindr. Sherlock had texted him as another man, had annoyed and intrigued him. Sherlock had asked to meet him for a date. He had said he liked what he saw, complimented his legs. Sherlock had tricked John.

Sherlock had lied to him.

He was furious again, and made a sound like a chuckle but it was anything but humorous. “Is this a joke? Are you taking the piss?”

Sherlock’s head snapped up and he jutted his chin out. He looked like a child who had been caught holding the cookie but denied lifting the lid of the jar. Defiant. Was he also slightly ashamed?

“John,” he started.

His fury had been replaced by confusion and a deep hurt. “And why? Why would you do this to me?”

Sherlock had found him on Grindr and thought it would be a good idea to pose as someone else. In John’s mind, the only thing that made sense was that Sherlock was trying to humiliate him. He was used to his friend’s barbs about his ‘tiny brain’, or about his ‘improving but continued lack’ of deductive ability. He accepted that Sherlock left him at crime scenes, talked to him when he wasn’t there, asked him to fetch his phone when he was too lazy to get off of the couch.

John had accepted it all, not because he was desperately in love with the selfish dick, but because, at his core, John was sure that Sherlock respected him. Now though. Now, this lie. It was injurious and embarrassing and so fucking hurtful.

He looked at Sherlock, who had stopped trying to talk. His eyes were huge with surprise and confusion. Finally he choked out, “John, I’m sorry…”

He’d had enough. He got up. Sherlock grabbed for his sleeve, as he knew he would, but he was anticipating this and moved faster, for once. He was out the door, and jumped into a cab just as Sherlock came running out of the restaurant. He looked both ways down the street before he spotted John looking at him from the back of the cab. Sherlock ran towards it right as it was pulling away, a look of pure terror on his face.

\---------oo----~----oo---------

He knew there was a possibility that this might happen. Sherlock supposed that John was outright rejecting him. Their first night at Angelo’s, their closeness, the John in his mind palace, perhaps these ‘clues’ had all been wrong. John had asked him if he was joking, as if the possibility of a romantic union with a peculiar-looking, very male, sociopath was completely foreign to him. Sherlock knew that there was a risk that John might react this way.

“John.”

John’s face was pale. He looked ten years older, and tired. So tired. He looked down at the table and his bottom lip quivered.

“And why? Why would you do this to me?”

When he raised his head again, he was wearing a look Sherlock had never seen. A dark mixture of anguish and mortification. Sherlock had not meant to thoroughly crush his one true love.

He needed to get this situation under control. He thought he had made it clear that he, in fact, was William and that he hoped John would respond positively and wish to continue with their date. That was not going to happen now, so Sherlock was desperate to apologize and tell John he understood. To tell John that it was all fine and ask him if they could forget this and go back to being partners again. He needed to say the right things, like “sorry” and “please”. In his desperation to put it right, his brain stalled and the right words would not come. He barely choked out, “John, I’m sorry…” before John was up and running towards the door.

Stunned into inaction, Sherlock simply looked at John’s back as he retreated. It took a full two seconds for his sluggish brain’s alarms to propel him to standing, then running, towards John.

He cursed himself for letting sentiment slow him down as he watched, panicked, John’s grey-blonde head in the back of a cab, quickly moving away from the restaurant.

\---------oo----~----oo---------

John arrived at Baker Street and quickly moved up the stairs, hung up his jacket, kicked off his shoes and sprinted up to his room.

He undressed rapidly and put on his pajama bottoms and sleep t-shirt even though it was only half eight. He didn’t care, he just wanted to forget tonight and not think about what he was going to do about his flat, his work, his love life or lack of it.

His evening had gone spectacularly tits-up. Instead of meeting the intriguing and sexy-hipped William, he was embarrassed by his idiot flatmate, and sincerely baffled about Sherlock’s motivation for the stunt.

Locked away in his room, John thought, _What the hell was Sherlock doing on Grindr?_ _And how did he find me_? He had ensured that his profile picture was anonymous. He wondered if Sherlock had looked at his phone. He dismissed that possibility, because he was very careful about his phone’s whereabouts, especially since downloading the app. He asked himself, incredulous, if Sherlock was actually able to recognize him from a photo of running legs.

John knew the answer to that. He’d wandered around the flat in a dressing gown after a shower innumerable times. He supposed a few times, the robe opened a bit more that he was aware and Sherlock only needed one look to memorize the shape and size of every leg muscle, if he had so desired. John wondered why he had done that. Surely the shape of John’s legs was classified as irrelevant information and scheduled for regular deletion.

He was frustrated and confused. He decided to stop thinking about Sherlock and William and Grindr. He grabbed the paperback on his nightstand, dimmed the bedside lamp slightly, and settled down to read what was turning out to be a very interesting and well-written novel. He lost himself for the next 15 minutes until he heard the front door open and close.

Sherlock was silent. John tried to go back to reading, but his concentration was gone. He closed his eyes, resting his book in his lap. Breathing in and out slowly, he willed his mind to stop racing. It worked to relax him a bit, so when he heard a sharp rap at his door, he gasped, startled. _Fucking Sherlock_. He blew out a tense breath but ignored the knock. He would talk to Sherlock tomorrow.

He heard a click and tap near the doorknob and just as he realized what was happening, Sherlock, still in his coat, scarf, and gloves, opened his previously-locked bedroom door and stepped inside.

Sherlock had picked his lock, _the complete arsehole_. He had invaded his privacy and gone against his wishes to be alone tonight. Sharp anger ran across his brain like fire on a fuse. Rage took over his body. He bolted upright and stood next to his bed, putting it between them.

“Sherlock, get out of here.”

“No. I need to talk to you.”

He did not want to talk to Sherlock about this now, maybe ever. “Get. The. Fuck. OUT!” He shouted, Sherlock flinched. Somewhere inside of him, John stung with regret. The last thing he wanted was for Sherlock to ever be frightened of him. So he said, angrily, but more quietly, “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No, John.”

“Yes,” he shouted, “Please!” He was dead serious and he could see the moment that Sherlock accepted his wishes. His face drooped, ruffling his curls with both hands. He turned his back to John and walked out of the bedroom, leaving the door open.

John walked around his bed and reached for the door to close it, just as Sherlock walked back through the doorway.

“John, please listen to me. Please.”

John saw agony in Sherlock’s face. Two ‘pleases’ from Sherlock was the equivalent of anyone else sniveling on their knees, begging. It got John’s attention.

Knowing he would not sleep anyway, John gave in, “All right, Sherlock. But not here. Not here,” and after a long moment of looking at the floor he said, “And not without tea. Or something stronger.”

Sherlock’s shoulders, still tense and held up towards his ears, lowered slightly.

“All right.”

“Go downstairs. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Sherlock left the room quickly. John could hear the rustling of his coat being removed, and the kettle clicking on.

John pulled on his soft blue and white striped sweater over his t-shirt, and after a short deliberation, he pulled off his pajama bottoms and put on jeans. He felt a bit more protected fully dressed. Filled with dread, he slowly walked down the stairs.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair with elbows to knees, hunched over his legs. He was staring off towards the kitchen, but shifted his eyes to John as he went into the kitchen through the hallway. He looked simply miserable.

John walked to the kettle, stared at it, but decided he didn’t want tea. He clicked the kettle off before it could boil. He pulled out the round tumblers and poured them each a large slug of whisky.

He walked over to his chair and as he sat down he handed Sherlock the drink. Sherlock looked at it, took it into his large hand without looking at John, and nodded.

John sat down and waited. There was no way that he was going to be the first one to speak. Sherlock, the demanding git, had broken into his room and begged him to have this conversation tonight. He could damned well start talking first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I am [onesmallfamily](http://onesmallfamily.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock gulped his scotch in one go. He hoped that it would help him to string the words together that would make John Watson stay. He desperately wanted to get past this, to assure John that it was all right that he didn’t want him in that way. That Sherlock needed him as his friend, his colleague, and that their relationship could remain the same. He didn’t know what he would do if John left him. He croaked, “John,” voice cracking due to these desperate thoughts.

John looked up, face tight but trying to remain passive.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “John, I apologize.”

John stared at him, drink in one hand, only a small sip left. “That it?”

Sherlock realized that he would need to elaborate. “No, that’s not it.” He closed his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck with his left hand, right still holding onto his empty glass.

“I did not mean to embarrass you,” He started.

“I want to know why you did it,” John interrupted, “Why did you think that sending me flirty messages, pretending to be someone else, luring me to drinks under false pretences, was a good idea?”

“That’s not…” but John did not pause and kept speaking when Sherlock tried to talk. He raised his voice louder with every sentence.

“Did you do it just for fun? Just to see how your pathetic, lonely, flatmate would react? Was it some kind of experiment?” he shouted. “Honestly, Sherlock, I thought we were better friends than this. I truly never believed you were a sociopath, but now…” he shook his head. He stopped speaking, looked down at his knees. He looked completely devastated and so exhausted.

“John, please. Please let me explain.”

John remained silent and almost imperceptibly nodded his head, still looking down.

“I did not ‘lure’ you to meet with William as a joke or as an experiment.” Sherlock was watching John closely. He lifted his eyes minutely, now staring at Sherlock’s shoes.

“I found you quite by accident when I was looking for...a person to…” He struggled to find an appropriate last word. “Date.”

John looked up and smirked, but said humorlessly, “Well, that answers that question.”

“Yes, well, it seemed that I was curious, and in...need of some...companionship. Although I had deduced that your most recent date was with a man, I was quite surprised to see you on the app. I assure you, I was not looking for you, but I could not help knowing that your profile photo was actually you.”

“In a hundred years, I never would have thought you’d be on Grindr.”

“Same.”

John looked confused, “You knew I was bisexual.”

Sherlock flushed, “Actually, no. I only realized after your latest date.” _There's always something._

Eyebrows knit together, John said, “Really?”

“Yes, John, really.” He was getting exasperated. He just wanted this whole thing over. “It’s all right that you don’t feel that way about me. I understand perfectly well why you would not want me. Now, please John. I’ve begged you enough, can we just forget that this happened and go back to the way things were?”

“Wait,” John said slowly, “did you actually want us to have a date tonight?”

Sherlock stared at him, incredulous, then cried, “Yes, John! Do you seriously need me to act it out? Shall I write it out as a narrative on your blog? What will make you understand that I wanted to be your date this evening?” After his outburst he lowered his voice and calmly repeated, “It’s all right that you don’t feel that way about me. I would like us to...”

“Shut up,” John cut him off, and stared at the far wall.

Sherlock stood up. He knew that the discussion was now over, and all he wanted to do was go to his room and process what had happened. His greatest hope was that he could convince John to stay. He had to figure out how to woo John, the way he had when they first met. He would go into his mind palace and replay those beautiful first few weeks, when John was amazed, and Sherlock fell in love.

John stood up just after he did. John grabbed him by the wrist and looked down where his hand was touching.

“Sherlock.” John looked up and licked his lips, face open but fearful. It was a look that Sherlock had rarely seen. John Watson was not easily frightened.

He just stared into John’s dark blue eyes, unsure what he was seeing. His body betrayed him as his stomach flip-flopped expectantly. Not breaking eye contact, he quickly admonished his adrenal system for inciting these emotions that his bloody transport interpreted as hope.

“I want to get this right. There’s only right now. There’s only this one first time.”

His eyes went wide as John raised his other hand to touch Sherlock’s jaw, so lightly, with two fingers.

Sherlock didn’t speak, but looked at John questioningly, breath coming faster. He hoped. He dreamed that John’s intentions were amorous, but he dare not say anything.

John drew his eyebrows together, looking worried, but smiled shakily, “I want to get this right,” he repeated, and dropped his hands and stepped away.

Sherlock exhaled a loud breath and ran his hands through his curls, pulling at the tangles that naturally accumulated throughout the day. He took a step back and looked at the floor. For what felt like the tenth time that night, he thought that the conversation was over, and worried again that John might leave. He needed to find the words to make John his friend and partner again.

When he looked back up at John, he was shocked.

John sported a flirty smirk, peering at him under long blonde eyelashes. John’s demeanor had completely changed.

This John was not angry. This John was not frightened anymore. This John was the confident, sexual, pick-up-the-waitress John.

John’s voice was a bit loud for the quiet of the room, but confident and surprisingly cheerful, “Sherlock, do you want to date me?” He put his hand on one hip, cocked his head, and settled his face into a confident, sexy smirk.

Sherlock thought for a moment about his answer. Of course he wanted to ‘date’ John. If ‘date’ meant kiss, cuddle, share space, share everything, then yes. If ‘date’ meant lick, suck, rub, caress, stretch, bite, penetrate, loosen, receive, fuck, then yes. _Fuck yes._

He wondered if he could just say yes. _What would it feel like to just finally say yes?_ After months of silent suffering, of frustrated wanking, of fucking men who decidedly were Not John, he felt a great surge of relief swoop from his chest down to his toes. He realized he was desperate, absolutely bursting, to tell the truth.

“Yes, John,” and he smiled, involuntarily huge, with the pure joy that was bursting without permission from his chest.

John closed his eyes and exhaled a huge audible sigh, dropping his arms to his side, relief evident throughout his frame.

Sherlock surged forward, hands going to both sides of John’s head. John lifted his hands to cup Sherlock's jaw. Their faces were still a few centimeters apart when they stopped moving. The only sounds in the room were their combined breaths. They simply stared at each other, each waiting for the upheaval, the revolution, the enormous shift that was about to happen.

“I want to kiss you so much.”

“Yes,” he moaned, and leaned down to firmly press his lips to John’s. John hummed softly and tightened his lips around Sherlock’s bottom lip, pulling slightly. He repeated the move on his upper lip. Sherlock kept his mouth soft and let John gently sip his lips.

With each nip, Sherlock’s arousal grew stronger. Heat pooled in his lower abdomen and groin. The drape of his trousers was becoming misshapen. His heart was racing, he was panting, and it felt not unlike a panic attack he once suffered in primary school, after Redbeard.

They hadn’t even opened their mouths yet and Sherlock had the irrational thought, _I may not survive long enough to have sex with John Watson_.

He had to pull away to catch his breath, hands still holding John’s precious head. He opened his eyes and found John watching him, bemused and smiling. John was breathing heavily but nothing compared to Sherlock’s whole body response to their fairly chaste kiss.

“All right?”

“Mmm Hmm,” he hummed. He didn’t care if these were his last moments on earth, he had to kiss John again. So he pulled John’s head so their lips met once again. John shifted his arms so he was hugging him tightly, one arm over his shoulder and one under, squeezing his scapula. This time, Sherlock used his tongue to sweep against John’s upper lip. John responded by opening his lips and wetly slid their tongues together.

_Oh fuck._

That was it. Sherlock’s legs went numb and he buckled slightly, although he caught himself before he was completely humiliated.

The movement ended their kiss, but John held him up despite his 15 cm vertical deficit. When Sherlock was standing completely on his own again, John released him from the hug but grabbed his hand, interlacing their fingers.

“Come on.” John pulled him towards the sofa.

Sherlock swayed, but made it to the sofa with John’s guidance. He sat heavily, without his usual grace. John held his hand in his own, and placed his other hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck.

“Are you sure about this? Because I need you. I need you so much. I can’t...I could never jeopardize our friendship,” John pled, “You have to be sure.”

In answer, Sherlock surged forward and placed short firm kisses on his lips, then moved to the other parts of his face, speaking between each kiss.

Lips. “I’m.”

Cheek. “So.”

Temple. “Sure.”

Eyelid. “Wanted.”

Eyebrow. “You.”

Bridge of his nose. “So.”

Nose. “Long.”

Philtrum. “So.”

Lips. “Much.”

He pulled back, staring into those ocean blue eyes ringed with longer-than-average lashes, “I’m so sure, John. I need you too.”

With red-rimmed eyes and lips quivering slightly, he whispered, “Oh god.”

They crashed their lips together, immediately opening their mouths, deepening the kisses, tongues firmly caressing one another. Falling back so they were lying almost prone on the sofa, their arms wound around each other, hands exploring from shoulders to necks. John’s nose brushed past his own, leaving small puffs of hot breath on his cheek. Small moans emitted from deep within each of their throats. He tipped his hips forward and pressed the length of his rigid cock against John’s hips, nearly sobbing when he felt John’s equally stiff erection against his.

Sherlock raised both hands to embrace John’s jaw and neck. He had a hard time keeping his hands out of John’s hair once he felt the soft shaggy strands that brushed his collar. John’s hands moved to his hips, pulling him closer.

Sherlock kissed John with a passion that he had never felt before. Kissing John was a universe away from kissing anyone else. Other kisses were like a thimble of water, but John’s were like the entire sea, washing over Sherlock’s senses. He floated away on the thrilling, albeit terrifying, waves of John Watson’s tide.

John explored every centimeter of Sherlock’s lips, pulling each one into his mouth, gently at first. Then with more suction and even a hint of teeth. Sherlock whimpered with each movement trembling more and more violently until John pulled back, hands still on either side of Sherlock’s neck.

“We should slow down. You’re shaking like an earthquake.”

His voice barely a whisper, “Don’t thtop,” and with that, each man froze. Sherlock abruptly stopped trembling. His eyes went wide, mouth slammed shut, hands dropped from John’s back to the couch. He was completely mortified, sliding his eyes shut and dropping his chin.

“Sherlock?”

“Well, that’s embarrassing.”

He was always so careful with his words. His speech was vitally important. It was how he ripped suspects to shreds, how he charmed people into giving him information, how he charmed John in the first place. Apparently, kissing John brought out the childish lisp he had grown to detest, and worked very hard to destroy.

“No it isn’t, sweetheart. It’s fucking adorable. I love lisps. Always have.”

Sherlock looked up at him, cocked one eyebrow and gave him his patented _What’s it like in that funny little brain of yours?_ look. There was no way that John thought his lisp was adorable.

“Fucking sexy too. Especially on you who is already basically sex on two legs.”

Sherlock blinked rapidly for 10 seconds, opened his mouth, took a breath as if to say something, then closed his lips, brow furrowing. He could not understand. John said he was sexy. That his dumb lisp was sexy. That he himself was the actual embodiment of sex.

“Do you really think that?”

“Yes, love,” he sighed and took Sherlock’s hands in his own. “Now, we can take this slow,” he licked his lips, “or we can go up to my bedroom. Whatever you want.”

Taking it slow was decidedly not what Sherlock wanted.

“Bedroom.”

John smiled with his whole face, stood up but kept their hands joined, “C’mon then, gorgeous.”

“Are you going to insist on using endearments?” He was proud to have regained enough composure to abolish his lisp for the moment.

“Problem?”

Sherlock looked down, smiling shyly, “Mmm...No.”

“Good.” John pecked him on the lips quickly, turned and let go of one hand, but squeezed harder with the other and took off for the stairs with such force, it jolted him forwards. John must be as eager as he was. He still couldn’t quite believe it, but he wasn’t going to question it.

They reached the top of the stairs, walked into John’s room, and immediately he turned towards Sherlock. His hands went to his jaw, thumbs tracing over his lips, never moving his eyes from them.

“Your lips are the most gorgeous I’ve ever seen. I can’t believe you are letting me touch them. Kiss them, even.” John smiled up at Sherlock, eyes softly wrinkling at the corners.

Sherlock raised his hands to John’s face and cupped them around each ear, long thumbs caressing his cheekbones.

“Your eyes are the most gorgeous I’ve ever seen. No one sees me like you do.” Sherlock smiled down at John, eyes bright with unshed tears.

“My eyes,” John said, unbelieving, “Your eyes...no one has eyes like you.”

Slowly, they leaned in together, lips touching with eyes still open. Tender and soft, gently they licked each other’s lips, once, twice, then pulled away, staring at each other.

Sherlock realized he had not been cataloguing, memorizing every touch and sound. His mind was gloriously focused on one thing, kissing John. His desire led his body to be flooded with adrenaline and testosterone, and it was currently demanding _More! Now!_ His sole focus was taking and giving pleasure, with John. He looked down, focusing on John’s jumper.

He grabbed at the hem, pulling John’s jumper and t-shirt off with one strong pull, “Off. This all needs to come off.”

John lowered his arms as Sherlock carelessly threw John’s clothes over his shoulder onto the floor, eyes never leaving John’s chest. John had let him see his scar once before, only weeks after they’d met. Sherlock had barely touched him, his shirt only partially open. At the time, he was well aware of his attraction to John, but the scar was so fascinating and the time was so fleeting, he hardly had time to deduce what had happened, much less get turned on by seeing a hidden part of John’s body. Now, however, was a different story. He was desperately turned on and wanted to catalogue everything. But Sherlock could not focus on one part of the glorious picture that was John Watson shirtless. His eyes skipped around to the scar, nipples, pectoral muscles, bulging biceps, soft stomach. John sucked in his stomach and held his breath.

“Don’t.” Sherlock looked into John’s eyes to show his sincerity, “You are stunning.” He didn’t want John being anything other than himself. They were finally here, no more hiding. _God, what a relief!_

Although he wanted to deduce every scar on John’s body, his intense arousal was causing him to tremble again. Like a drone bee to a flower’s nectar, his focus was singular. His hands went straight for the button and zipper of John’s jeans. His shaking hands were almost unable to get the zip down. Almost.

They were panting into each other’s mouths, not really kissing anymore. Sherlock had the vague thought that sharing inhales and exhales might lead to oxygen deprivation. He dismissed it as a risk he was more than willing to take.

Sherlock moved his hands to the back of John’s waistband and pushed his large hands inside, covering both of John’s cheeks with his large hands. He squeezed, pulling John closer to his clothed body. John let out a small gasp and then a groan. His hands which were on Sherlock’s face, moved to embrace him around his shoulders.

Sherlock pushed John’s jeans and pants down to his knees, then placed his hands back on John’s very warm buttocks. They began enthusiastically kissing, tongues tangling together wet and hot. John had to hang on to Sherlock for balance.

“Sherlock,” John whispered.

“Don’t thtop. Kissth me.”

“My shoes…”

Sherlock registered what he said but did not let go. He kept his hands on John, squeezing, grinding their erections together.

Abruptly, John pulled away, twisted out of Sherlock’s clutch, and bent over to remove his shoes. Shocked by John’s quick movements, Sherlock stood motionless, staring at the glorious view John was giving him. John bent at the waist, using one muscular arm to remove his shoes and socks, the other arm on the mattress for balance. Sherlock could see all down the side of his torso, along his beautiful jutting hip, soft swell of his arse, and toned bulging thighs. He realized with him stooped over like that, he could not see John’s cock. That he hadn’t yet seen John’s cock. A grave oversight that needed to be remedied immediately.

Sherlock moved closer but didn’t touch John. He pulled his last leg out of his jeans and stood, finally turning towards Sherlock. For about 3 seconds, he raked his eyes over every inch of John’s naked form.

Sherlock’s brain fizzled, the edges of his vision closing in, and said, “Mm. Ung.”

John smirked and said, “Sorry?” He sounded amused and a tad smug.

Sherlock dropped to his knees in front of John. His large hands went directly to John’s hips holding him in place. He immediately placed his nose and lips in the crease between John’s hip and pubis, opened his mouth, snaked out his tongue, and inhaled deeply through his nose. He groaned, “Oh my god, John…” His voice was lower than he remembered ever hearing it before.

“Fuck. Sh’lah,” John slurred.

Sherlock mouthed down the side of John’s cock, then rubbed the length all the way back up with his nose. Of course, Sherlock had deduced ( _fantasized about_ ) the size of John’s erection. It exceeded his expectation. Not only was it sized to suit him perfectly at 14.5 cm long and 14 cm around, but it was gorgeous. With the foreskin retracted and hard, it was almost perfectly straight, the glans was the same circumference as the shaft with a well-defined, and he hoped, sensitive frenulum.

If Sherlock was an artist, looking to create a canvas to hang in the Tate, depicting the most beautiful natural thing he’d ever seen, he would sketch with pastels or paint with oils a likeness of John Watson’s erect penis.

If Sherlock was a sculptor, clay and bronze his medium, he would use his large nimble fingers to re-create, with vulgar detail, the handsome phallus that was John’s cock.

If Sherlock imagined the ideal cock for him it would be this one.

“Mmm. You’re just right,” he mumbled, mouthing down the side of John’s magnificent erection, looking up into John’s eyes.

As images of paint, clay, frames, shrines swirled around in his head, he inhaled the scent of John’s musk and soap. He inhaled small molecules that were once part of John. They travelled through Sherlock’s nostrils straight to his scent receptors, creating electrical currents along neurons in his brain. His brain chemistry was forever changed by smelling John’s sex.

John stared at him, then his lips, then his hands came down and gripped him by the shoulders. “Sweetheart, come up here.”

\---------oo----~----oo---------

The sight of Sherlock Holmes, lips wet and pinker than usual, still dressed in his black suit, on his knees nuzzling his cock was almost enough to make John come right then. Almost.

“Sweetheart, come up here.”

At the endearment, John guessed, Sherlock blushed deeper and smiled so the skin around his eyes creased gorgeously. With one more swipe of his tongue across the base of his cock, he stood. _Tall. So tall._ Of course John knew he was tall, but to have Sherlock over him, around him, embracing him, and his face hovering over him was turning John on more than he thought it could.

“I want to see you, now.”

This evening had gone from spectacularly horrible to gloriously fucking exciting in the space of an hour and John could not have been more thankful. He couldn’t believe his luck and he dearly hoped that Sherlock was serious about his affection for John. He wouldn’t be able to go back, and he hadn’t even seen him naked yet.

Sherlock leaned down to kiss him slow and sweet, nipping gently at his lips as his hands remained on John’s hips.

John unbuttoned his top button, moving his lips to Sherlock’s ear. His fingers continued to free Sherlock’s buttons but he was not looking at the skin revealed just yet. He gently sucked at Sherlock’s earlobe, then nuzzling the shell of his ear, he whispered low and gruff, “Your shirts have tortured me for months.”

Sherlock’s knees buckled slightly so he spread his legs a bit to steady himself. John kept his lips on Sherlock’s ear.

“The buttons keep hanging on, but I could see. I could see your gorgeous muscles and I had to turn my eyes away. Every day. The things I imagined. God, you don’t even know.”

Sherlock whimpered softly and moved his hands to cup John’s arse, gently kneading the muscles.

“Fuck - ah - your hands. God, the things I’ve been dreaming of doing with you.”

“I can’t...I need…we have to…”

“What do you need?”

“You. Now. Touch me.” The words were typically demanding, but he did not sound like his typical demanding self, he sounded completely wrecked and desperate.

John could hear the faint lisp when he said the word ‘touch’ and he wanted to do everything he could to hear more.

“Unbutton your cuffs,” he said reaching for the button of Sherlock’s trousers. He undid the placket with one hand while rubbing his other hand over the length of his erection over the expensive wool. Sherlock gasped and John kissed him, still palming his stiff cock. Their kisses turned frantic as Sherlock undid the last of his buttons and stripped his shirt off. John had his trousers and pants open, Sherlock’s cock poking proudly out of his flies. John wrapped his hand around the base and firmly and quickly stroked up to the head and back down, never breaking the kiss. Sherlock kissed him back sloppily, mouth partially open, moaning loudly.

John finally broke the kiss to divest Sherlock of the rest of his clothes. For a moment, they just stood next to each other, finally naked, staring at each other. He was the first to break out into a huge grin, Sherlock quickly followed. Each bubbling with quiet laughter they reached for each other, crashing their lips together in a passionate, sloppy kiss. Laughter rapidly faded to desperate groans and gropes, as they locked their lips and skated their tongues together.

Sherlock’s lips were so soft. They were perfect for kissing, just as John had known they would be. Kissing him was perfection, with each kiss a new surprising sound or breath or flick of his tongue.

He could only hear Sherlock’s deep hums and moans. He could only feel Sherlock’s warm mouth and short breaths puffed onto his cheeks. Nothing else mattered. _Nothing else will ever matter. He’s perfect. He’s perfect for me._

John pulled back to say, “You are so fucking beautiful.”

“No, you are.”

“I’ve never wanted anyone as much as I want you.”

“John, pleath.”

Sherlock blushed deeper and John took pity on his desperate shaking love, pulling him back down for more eager kisses. John took the lead. Sherlock made such delicious noises, deep rumblings that reverberated through his chest. John tightened his embrace, deciding that their first shared orgasm would be _right fucking now_. There would be hours, days, years for slow and romantic. _Wouldn’t there?_

He walked Sherlock over to the bed, pushed him down and tumbled on top of him. Sherlock grabbed at John, aligning their bodies by squeezing his arse. With their height difference non-existent while horizontal, John was free to grasp the back of Sherlock’s head with one hand and reach down between them with the other.

He gently squeezed Sherlock’s pectoral muscle, then quickly pinched his nipple just hard enough so that Sherlock’s gasped, breaking their kiss to stare hungrily into John’s eyes. He stared back, hand still gripping the back of Sherlock’s neck, holding him where he wanted him.

“You are so gorgeous.”

Sherlock was shaking so hard, John was starting to get a little worried. He pushed his hand down into the trail of hair at his abdomen, leading down to his neatly trimmed pubic hair. John propped himself up on one elbow over Sherlock’s torso but did not kiss him just yet. He looked down at his gorgeous taut stomach, to watch his small hand as it wrapped around the base of Sherlock’s absolutely exquisite cock. Of course, Sherlock would groom his hair so that his hard cock was sublimely framed for maximum aesthetic effect. John’s breath was coming faster and faster as he moved his hand along the considerable length of his beloved’s erection. John’s own thick cock lying stiffly in the crease of Sherlock’s thigh.

“I want to see you come. It’s going to be so beautiful. You are stunning. Perfection.”

“Together, oh pleath John, together,” he said shakily.

At the sound of Sherlock’s lisp, his cock twitched and became impossibly harder. He was inordinately proud that his touch was inducing that fucking sexy lisp in his normally composed friend.

“All right, sugar. Together.” John shifted to align himself to Sherlock and began thrusting, using his hand and Sherlock’s smooth stomach for friction.

\---------oo----~----oo---------

 _And, oh god, wasn’t that perfection?_ He looked down to see their cocks slide together, framed by John’s small confident hand. He was mesmerized and his brain quieted from its normal cavernous cacophony to one simple song that sounded like a quiet steady heartbeat, moving in time to John’s thrusts.

He was absolutely sure his cock had never been this hard.

All he could see was John. All he could feel was John. His John. Beautiful strong clever lovely John. Shivers wracked his frame adding strangely to the rhythm John was creating with this steady thrusts.

“Sweetheart, please, kiss me.”

He looked up and immediately locked his lips to John’s. As soon as their tongues met an electric jolt zipped through his body and Sherlock knew he was not going to last another 30 seconds. He broke the kiss to throw his head back, gasping and feeling his climax start in his toes and lower back. A glowing warm wave was moving up his legs and down his spine.

John immediately mouthed at his neck, licking up and down along his pulse point. He scraped his teeth along the long expanse of skin, then sealed his lips to one point and lightly sucked.

He gasped, “I’m closthe.” He was so far beyond being embarrassed by his lisp, but even in his addled state, he hoped that John was telling the truth about it being sexy.

John mouthed along his neck wetly, “Come. I want to see you.” He could feel John lift his head, give a particularly hard thrust, and twist his hand around the heads of their cocks.

One more sharp inhale and his whole body stilled for a moment, hands on John’s tight gluteal muscles. The wave radiating up from his feet and down his spine coalesced in his cock, which jumped and pulsed in ecstatic waves. Rolling tides of pleasure washed over his whole body as he came, wetness soaking his cock, pubic hair, stomach, and chest. Sherlock was vaguely aware of the noises he was making, low grunts and ‘ahs’, as his breath was knocked from his lungs. When the waves subsided, he finally heard John.

“Ung,” John panted, “Ah...sweet...I’m going to…”

John had lifted himself slightly off of Sherlock and was pulling rapidly on his own cock. His gaze moved from John’s hand and cock to his face. John was looking into Sherlock’s eyes hungrily and half-lidded.

“Sher…,” he grunted.

Sherlock put his hand over John’s and John immediately let go. Taking this as a very clear sign, he wrapped his hand tightly around John’s perfect cock, mimicking the strokes John had just abandoned.

His voice deep, “John, I need to see you. I love…” He paused very briefly, catching himself, “To see you like this,” he continued. John moaned deeply, closed his eyes, and came.

Sherlock felt his own cock twitch at the sight. John let out a low groan, eyes squeezed shut, mouth opened, panting through his orgasm before he finally collapsed on top of Sherlock and buried his face in his neck. He lifted his hands from John’s arse, and squeezed them around his shoulders, pulling him into a tight embrace. John kept his lips pressed to his neck and Sherlock left small kisses on John’s temple.

As their breathing slowed, his brain couldn't help but come back online. He wondered what was going to happen. They had agreed to ‘date’, _hadn’t they?_ There would surely be more kisses, hugs, sex. Right? He supposed they should talk about this. John would probably want to make rules or something.

He suddenly realized that while he was contemplating this new step in their relationship, John had started shaking on top of him. _Oh god, was he crying? Regrets already? No! Please!_

“John?” he softly said.

John lifted up his head and looked at Sherlock. His eyes were red and glassy but he was smiling. He didn’t look like he had regrets, he looked delighted.

“You were giggling” he accused.

“I’m so fucking happy.”

Sherlock’s face broke into what he imagined was the biggest, most idiotic grin. John answered with a smile just as idiotic.

“I need...something.” John reached over to the bedside table for a few tissues to clean them up. After a few swipes they were still a little sticky but neither seemed to mind. John moved off to Sherlock’s side, and he rolled to face him. Sherlock’s eyes roamed all over John’s face, memorizing every detail of his relaxed, blissed-out expression.

He raised one hand to John’s jaw and gently pressed his thumb into the cleft of his chin.

“I love this.”

John smiled and put his hand on Sherlock’s jaw, rubbing his thumb over Sherlock’s lips.

“I love these.”

He puckered his lips to kiss John’s thumb.

They stayed like that for a moment, then he yawned. A big, loud, stretched out yawn, and John giggled.

“Honey, come here.” John maneuvered him around so that he was lying on his back with Sherlock tucked up against his side, head resting on his good shoulder. “I’m knackered, let’s sleep for a bit.”

“Mmm…” he hummed into John’s chest. He was suddenly exhausted.

After months of wanting, he finally had John. To him it felt serious. Real. Lasting. He hoped that in the excitement of the moment he had not mis-read John’s words and actions. He desperately hoped that this was the beginning of a lasting and loving partnership. Where John was his, dare he say, forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. Kissing and orgasms, finally. Thank you for reading, and come find me - I am [onesmallfamily](http://onesmallfamily.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.


	9. Chapter 9

He woke to the soft sound of snoring. They had moved apart in the night, but they were still close and facing each other on their sides. He wasn’t used to having anyone sleeping next to him, but he loved it because it was John. He pressed his face a little deeper into the sheets. The smell of him, of them, wafted over him and he couldn’t help the fond smile as he looked at his sleeping love’s face. Light from the street lamps shone through the drapes dimly. It was still dark. Sherlock deduced it must be near half three, too preoccupied with being in John’s bed to make a more accurate deduction. He couldn’t control the impulse to touch, so he slowly reached his hand over the pillow to gently press his hand onto the crown of greying blonde hair. With his other hand, he traced the hairline from temple, to ear, then down John’s jawline and rested one finger in the cleft of his chin that he loved so much. He kept his other hand at his crown, cradling John’s precious skull.

The definition in his chin, the cleft, complimented his jaw in a singularly male way. John was not a pretty boy, like Sherlock had been told about himself. He was handsome and masculine and strong and brave...and asleep. John hadn’t moved at all while he lightly touched his face and head. He supposed he should let him sleep.

He stared at John’s face. His lips were slightly parted and he was snoring, despite his future protests to the contrary. Despite the fact, that days from now, video evidence will be presented to the obdurate man, _honestly John_.

John's nose was wide enough to compliment his lips when they smiled, and a perfect triangle when in profile, the slightest upturn at the tip but only from certain angles. Sometimes he looked boyish and harmless. Sherlock suspected it was this upturn that led unsuspecting people to underestimate the fierce warrior.

John's eyelashes were freakishly long. They were pale, though, so it took the right backlight to reveal their reach.

John's eyes, _oh, John’s eyes_. They were a dark cobalt blue with swirls of auburn and gold. Sherlock had never known another person who had eyes like John's. Not only was the colour shockingly unique, but what they observed, how John saw, was unparalleled and purely John. He helped Sherlock to think clearly, to reveal hidden corners and angles that he couldn't see on his own. He also saw Sherlock. He saw all of it, yet still wanted to work with him, live with him, and apparently, have sex with him.

John snored away, ignorant of Sherlock’s perusal. Sherlock’s hand remained still on John’s head but he moved his other hand to rest on the sheets between them. John’s arms were relaxed down along his body, hands trapped together between his own knees.

Sherlock inhaled deeply and blew a large sharp breath onto John’s face.

John’s fringe ruffled upwards away from his forehead from the short puff of air, otherwise there was no reaction from John. Sherlock knew he was being completely childish but he was craving some kind of reaction from John. He wasn’t bored, exactly, he just missed John’s eyes. He puffed again, this time with an accompanying very faint whistle.

John’s eyelids fluttered, he pressed his lips together, and snorted through his nose. Sherlock’s eyes grew wider in anticipation of John opening his. He wondered if he would be shocked to find Sherlock in his bed.

John reached out his hand and flopped it onto Sherlock’s neck. He hummed and slowly opened his eyes, immediately finding Sherlock’s. He smiled sleepily. Sherlock thought it was the most adorable he’d ever seen him. Waking up with John in the dark was one of the best things he’d ever done.

“D’dju blow on me?”

Sherlock didn’t answer.

“Bit creepy, that,” he yawned, moving his hand down Sherlock’s jaw to touch his lips, “but since you look so lovely I’ll forgive you this time.”

Sherlock moved his fingers in John’s hair to scratch at his scalp just a bit.

“Mmm...feels good.” John closed his eyes briefly, then opened them and scrunched his nose as if he was confused about something and asked, “Love?”

Sherlock smiled, “Yes, John.”

Sherlock didn’t know what John was going to ask him, if anything. _Was he calling me Love or asking me about love?_ Sherlock didn’t get the chance to ask, and didn’t care to at the moment, because something much better transpired. Something Sherlock wholly approved of, body and brain.

John lunged at him and pulled them close so they were pressed together from lips to toes. John slotted his leg between Sherlock’s and pressed their hips together more firmly with a strong hand on his arse. John’s hand alternated between rubbing, squeezing, and soft caresses over each cheek. It was like worship and Sherlock’s arse was overjoyed to be the alter.

Sherlock kissed John desperately, groaning from deep within his chest each time his hands squeezed.

Sherlock’s cock had been hard since he woke up, getting harder with every touch of John’s hands on his body. John was semi-hard when they first pressed hip-to-hip but with each kiss, each caress, his glorious cock filled to its superlative and envious girth.

Their kisses slowed to match the lazy rhythm of their cocks sliding against each other.

Sherlock wanted to cry “Glory!” at the miracle of John naked, hard, and wanting him. John of the lengthy eyelashes. Of the lazuli eyes. Of the lisp-inducing lovemaking. John. Of the perfect thick cock that he just knew was going to fit, and hit places within him, just so.

Thinking about John’s cock reminded Sherlock that he wanted to taste. His brain, after all, had been re-programmed with the compulsion to seek John’s molecules and absorb them into his body. He couldn’t get enough of his taste and smell. If he could change biology, he would live on it alone, sustenance for survival superior to mere bread and wine.

He pulled his lips from John’s to trail a wet line of tiny kisses down John’s jaw line, behind his ear, then paused to suck on his earlobe. John inhaled sharply then let out a very low moan. Sherlock did it again, this time using his teeth lightly. John squirmed and moaned again. He moved down to John’s neck to lick and nibble just below his ear. Sherlock’s open mouthed kisses, paired with his own aroused panting, made the hair at John’s nape flutter slightly. John shivered and was mumbling, "Oh god, oh god...".

“I’m clean. I don’t want anything between us,” he rumbled in John’s ear.

“I’m clean too.”

“I know.” Sherlock’s hands were stroking John’s sides, up and down slowly while he moved his mouth to John’s nipple. He pinched one between thumb and forefinger while scraping his teeth, and very gently biting the other. John arched his back, hand flying to the back of Sherlock’s head to twine his fingers into his hair. Sherlock moaned around his nipple as John tugged slightly on his curls.

With every sound, John was being told what Sherlock liked. And Sherlock loved to have his hair pulled. John did it again with a big more force, and Sherlock bit harder at John’s nipple. John moaned again, louder this time. A positive feedback loop of pleasure.

Goosebumps broke out all over his skin just from listening to John’s sounds. He wanted to collect the notes of John’s arousal and pleasure. He imagined scraps of paper flying in front of his face. He gathered each one to place in his mind palace. Each one marked with hurried script that read, “Oh”, “Mmm”, “Ha!”, and “Sherlock.”

One hand still gently pinching his nipple, Sherlock quickly moved his mouth down the middle of John’s stomach to his most desired destination, the tip of John’s cock. He swirled his tongue gently around the head. It was steel covered in silk, slit wet and salty.

Sherlock wondered again how John seemed to be tailormade for him. Physically, John was his ideal man, his Vitruvian man. His body and face and hands were perfectly proportioned to stimulate Sherlock’s libido in a way that had never happened before, and he was sure would never happen again. Sherlock had been instantly attracted to John’s physical form, but the surprise that John Watson turned out to be the bravest, and strongest, and wisest man he’d ever known helped him to fall in love. John’s friendship meant everything to him, and now that they were lovers, he wanted more. All of it. All of John. Forever.

He moved one hand to John’s hip, and gently stroked the other through his pubic hair, down over his tight bollocks, and finally gripped his long fingers around the base of John’s cock. He moved away from the tip and placed his nose near his hand, inhaling deeply, exhaling with a deeply satisfying moan, “Oh, John.” His deep voice echoed through the mostly darkened room.

John moved his hands to each side of his head, just above his ears, burying his fingers into frizzy curls. Sherlock opened his mouth, licked an open-mouthed stripe up to the head where he gently placed his lips softly around the crown, tightening briefly in a sweet kiss. He opened his mouth once again, relaxing his jaw and letting his tongue snake out to caress back and forth along John’s frenulum.

He looked up. In the dim light of the streetlamps, they looked at each other. John’s hands on his head and face, his tongue on John’s cock. John’s eyes glittered and his skin crinkled at the edges, as a very slow small smile played at his lips. Sherlock’s answering smile was tiny and brief, ending as he huffed out a little laugh and lowered his mouth entirely over the head of John’s cock and down the shaft as far as he could. He pulled his lips up his shaft, sucking hard, tongue pressing firmly to the underside.

“Ha! Ah,” John panted and gripped at his hair. Sherlock moaned around John as he bobbed his head up and down his shaft, sucking strongly and stroking his hand in time. Sherlock was in heaven. The shape of him, the taste, the scent, the sounds he was making...it was ambrosia, euphoria, meant to be. His mouth watered, making everything slippery. John was pulling his hair gently, legs shaking. He started babbling, “Your mouth. Oh my god. You have no idea how long...ah!...holy shit. Yes! Oh god, just like that...Ngh...”

John had not taken his eyes off of his face. His eyes jumped from Sherlock's lips to his eyes and back again. Sherlock alternated between staring back at John, and really getting down to business with the sucking, which involved taking as much of John into his throat as possible. It was harder to do while making eye contact, so he occasionally shut his eyes and concentrated on the feeling of John’s cock head against his soft palate and the addicting noises accompanying such a feat.

He saw no reason to tease John, _it was the middle of the night for heaven’s sake!_ He used one hand to stroke John in time with his bobbing head, and the middle and forefinger of his other hand to press gently up into John’s perineum. Pressing slightly, he swept his fingers up and back between perineum and arsehole. John let out a long deep moan.

One of John’s hands was still in Sherlock’s hair, the other had moved to lightly touch Sherlock’s hand moving up and down his cock. Sherlock’s rhythm was unrelenting and soon John was tugging hard on his curls. There would be time to observe John coming later. This time he wanted to taste John. He wanted to swallow him down, all of him. He continued his movements, and groaned with pleasure as John tugged harder.

One strong press to John’s perineum, his cock swelled further, and John was coming. He kept his hands on his head but loosened his hold on Sherlock’s hair. His legs thrashed on either side of Sherlock’s shoulders, crying out through gritted teeth. Sherlock held his hips as still as he could. John pulsed his release down Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock swallowed and swallowed, savoring the feeling of giving John so much pleasure. He moved his hands away from John but continued to lightly suck and lick at John for several minutes. If he was over-sensitive, he didn’t say. He seemed to be immensely enjoying the attention of Sherlock’s mouth. And Sherlock couldn’t get enough of John’s sensitive flesh on his tongue.

“You are amazing. That was amazing,” John said gruffly, “Your mouth. God, I knew it would be incredible, I knew it.” John gently touched his mouth with one finger. “Look at your lips. Nobody has lips like that.”

Sherlock watched John prattle on from where he had settled on John’s thigh. The view was gorgeous from here. John’s spent, yet still mostly hard cock, right in front of his nose, allowing for further intoxication with every inhale. The planes of John’s soft stomach, hard chest, gorgeous blue eyes gazing down at him, lips spilling lovely compliments. He smiled up at his one true love.

“Honey, now you. Come here.”

Sherlock was so distracted with his worship and complete adoration of John, he had forgotten that his cock was about as hard as it had ever been. It was different from last night, their first time. He had been so excited he trembled through everything. Now he was relaxed, almost as relaxed as if he had come himself. _Which you haven’t_ , the twitch of his weeping erection reminded him.

John pulled at his biceps. “Come up here and kiss me.”

Sherlock crawled up to meet John’s eager lips. They both groaned at the intimate contact only a kiss could bring. Sherlock clung to John, pulling him flush with his body at all points and started to thrust his cock against John’s stomach. They kissed deeply, John’s tongue constantly moving very hot and wet against his own. John placed his hands on his cheeks, caressing his cheekbones, one hand wandered down to grasp his throat lightly.

“You taste like me.” Sherlock’s hips moved faster and John broke the kiss, whispering, “I need to taste like you now.”

John quickly released himself from Sherlock’s hold, pushed him onto his back, and quickly scooted down until he hovered over his cock.

“John, you don’t have - nnngh…” Sherlock’s statement was cut off the moment that John took his cock deep into his mouth. Sherlock spread his legs as far as he could, looking down at the sight of John doing _that_ to him. John stroked the base of his cock with one hand, his eyes closed with a look of absolute joy on his face. As if sucking Sherlock’s cock was akin to seeing the sea for the first time, or your favourite sports team winning its cup. John’s hand reached up to find his open, panting lips. When his fingers found Sherlock’s tongue, John opened his eyes, let his jaw go slack, and flicked his tongue back and forth, up and down along his frenulum. Sherlock immediately sucked John’s fingers into his mouth and replicated his activity from six minutes previous. Which is to say, he sucked and licked and made slick John’s fore, middle, and ring fingers.

John kept his fingers in Sherlock’s mouth and started to suck in earnest at the head of his cock. He created shallow movements with his mouth concentrating all of the pressure and the movement of his tongue on the corona. Over and over again, he licked and firmly sucked over the ridge of sensitive skin.

Sherlock could feel the sensation throughout his whole body. The tension built quickly as he enthusiastically sucked on John’s fingers. A few more strokes and John did two glorious things at once. He removed his fingers from Sherlock’s mouth, immediately transferring them to his arse, pressing insistently, steadily, yet gently, at his entrance. Simultaneously, he removed his hand at the base of Sherlock’s cock and took him into his throat all the way, so that his nose was in Sherlock’s neatly trimmed hair. He bobbed slightly but kept the head of Sherlock’s cock down his throat and his fingers on his arsehole. The exquisite pressure of each was too much for Sherlock. His orgasm burst from his groin to all points north and south.

“Yesth!” he cried, and John moaned around him, holding himself still while wave after wave of ecstasy flowed through Sherlock’s whole body. It lasted longer than he ever remembered an orgasm lasting before. He did not know anything. He did not see or hear anything. He could only feel. It was a heart-stopping, whole body experience unlike any other, including the rush of the needle that very first time.

He was aware that he was breathing. He was breathing quite heavily. John was resting his head on Sherlock’s thigh, looking up at him, copying Sherlock’s earlier position. He lightly rubbed his hand over Sherlock’s hip.

“D’dju?” Sherlock slurred.

“Did I what, love?”

“Did you swallow?”

“Yes,” John drawled, drawing out the word as if he was talking to a dimwit.

Sherlock moaned and closed his eyes. As a proudly observant man he knew the question was ridiculous, but he had to hear John say it. John was a part of him, and he was now a part of John. John crawled up to be face to face with him, and the kiss they shared was sleepy and tender. John settled down in the crook of his arm and threw one leg over his hips.

“Mmm tired,” John mumbled into his shoulder, “but I loved being woken up by you,” he clarified, “like this. Just so you know.”

Sherlock kissed the top of John’s head and squeezed a little tighter around his shoulders. All of those years alone he never thought that he would ever feel this good with another person. He never thought he would crave another human. But he did. He craved John’s companionship, his presence, and now his intimacy.

A brief burst of adrenaline shot through him as he panicked at the thought of losing John. He knew that it would be harder than his hardest withdrawal. He doubted he would survive.

John must have noticed that he had tensed up. He traced his hands up and down Sherlock’s chest.

“I know,” John yawned and placed a peck on his chest, “Don’t worry, sweetheart.”

John Watson was a wonder. Sherlock had no doubt that he could read his thoughts. He tried hard take John’s advice and not worry. They breathed together in the dark until John drifted asleep. It would take him an hour or more to finally succumb to a deep dreamless slumber.

\---------oo----~----oo---------

It took John a moment or two for an inventory of his body and his surroundings. He couldn’t remember ever sleeping so soundly. Sherlock was close, but their only point of contact was their joined hands. Sherlock was holding John’s hand in both of his, a loose clasp. He smiled and promised himself that he would hold Sherlock’s beautiful hands as often as he could from now on.

John used his other hand to gently touch his face, pushing curls away from his temple so that he could see his stunning profile better. Eyes closed, devastating cheekbones prominent, full lips open huffing deep even breaths, Sherlock was John’s ideal vision of beauty. He leaned over and barely placed his lips to Sherlock’s upper lip in a gentle kiss. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open, met John’s immediately, and one side of his lips quirked up into half smile.

“Hello,” he said softly, closing his eyes again.

“Hello, love.”

Sherlock smiled with his whole mouth, eyes still closed. He gripped tighter to John’s hand and hummed.

John brought his other hand down to grip Sherlock’s.

Voice gruff from sleep, he said, “Sometimes I go into my mind palace and hold your hand.” He brought their joined hands to his lips and kissed John’s knuckles softly.

John’s heart broke a bit thinking about all of the months they had denied themselves this. He was determined to not waste another minute with this amazing man. He turned their joined hands so that he could mirror Sherlock and kiss his knuckles. Sherlock looked into John’s eyes with an expression so warm and loving that John had to reach forward to close the gap between their lips. They kissed slowly, morning breath be damned. He swirled his tongue over Sherlock’s lightly, then deepened the kiss by tilting his head allowing their mouths to open fully.

They disentangled their hands and reached for each other. They embraced tightly around the shoulders, John shoving his leg between Sherlock’s. Sherlock lifted his outer leg to throw it over John’s hip. John could then use his hand to feel all down his flank to squeeze his bum. He moved his hand forward, reaching down below to lightly rub his fingers along the cleft of his arse, stopping to gently stroke his perineum.

Sherlock groaned as they writhed together. John let his hand stroke up and down Sherlock’s arse, all over his cheeks, spending significant time on those hips that he had fantasized about.

He moved down to kiss and lick his throat. As long as they were confessing secret thoughts, he mumbled, “Your profile picture.”

“Mmm?”

“It was gorgeous. I wanted to get my hands on these hips.”

“William’s hips.”

“Yours,” he contradicted and added with a growl, “and now _mine_.”

He didn’t know if that was too much, but he couldn’t help being possessive. The fierce protectiveness, that manifested in a not-very-nice cabbie meeting his end within a day of their first meeting, had only grown stronger every day. Now that they were intimate, John knew that he would never be able to see Sherlock with anyone else. He couldn’t imagine himself with anyone else either. The Grindr experiment had not worked because as nice as the men he met were, they were not Sherlock. And Sherlock was John’s ideal partner in every way. Even if he was an annoying dick most of the time.

John grabbed ahold of each of his hips and ground their morning erections together. They had each used the loo in the night so the hardness happening was from pure arousal. Side by side, they rutted against each other, leaving no space between them as they kissed deeply. Sherlock rubbed his hands through John’s hair, causing a heavenly tingle starting at his scalp and spreading to his entire skin.

Sherlock had a hold of his face and was kissing him enthusiastically. Sherlock was making small “mmnff” and “nngh” sounds through his nose and in the back of his throat. The muffled grunts were driving John crazy and his cock swelled further. He mused that only Sherlock Holmes’ kiss could turn him on like this.

Not breaking their kiss he reached around to his bedside drawer. John could not physically pull his lips away from the gorgeous feeling of Sherlock’s lips on his, tongues sliding over one another. He felt around blindly until his fingers grazed a familiar bottle. He grabbed his prize, flipped the cap, upended the bottle and poured lube directly into that hand. He was quite proud of this one-handed feat.

He reached down to smear the slick lube between them. His aim was off and they ended up with slick cocks, bellies, and upper thighs. From all indications, neither minded in the slightest.

Sherlock’s hands were everywhere. Rubbing, caressing, squeezing everywhere he could reach. He reached down to stroke John’s cock, just twice. John realized his intention was not to keep stroking, but he was slicking his hand so that he could reach around behind John. His reach was extensive as his long fingers dug into the flesh of John’s arse. He copied John’s movements until they were both stroking gently up and down each other’s clefts, lingering to press circles or tap lightly on certain very sensitive places. Neither used enough pressure to press inside, just rubbed over and around until they were both breathing heavily. John was nearly out of his mind with desire. 

John tugged at the curls on the back of his head, causing him to inhale with a gasp. John followed his mouth and sucked on Sherlock’s bottom lip. He moved lower, kissing over his chin, across his jaw to his neck. His gloriously long freckled neck.

John had spent many hours thinking about that neck and those spots. His hips moved to slide their cocks together over and over, but his lips latched firmly onto on the sensitive space right below Sherlock’s earlobe. He sucked at the skin there until Sherlock emitted a sharp “ah!” of pleasure pain. John pulled back to examine the color of the spot he’d left on Sherlock’s beautiful throat.

“More,” he groaned hoarsely.

John latched onto his throat once more, sucking hard, this time using a bit of teeth hoping to make the spot the darkest of purples. His scarf would not be able to hide the mark. Maybe the Belstaff’s collar, if popped, would hide the mark from some angles. John hoped Sherlock might leave the collar down for the next few days.

He moved back up to kiss Sherlock’s lips. They needed more friction because there was a little too much lube between them. As if reading his mind, Sherlock reached his hand down between them and took them both in one hand. John’s free hand was still slick so he reached around again to Sherlock’s arse and started rubbing along the cleft again. Sherlock emitted an appreciative groan and sped up his hand, gripping a little bit tighter.

Sherlock abandoned John’s lips but immediately latched onto the exact same spot on John, just below his earlobe. He sucked hard over and over again, releasing each time with a pop of his lips. John groaned at the sensation.

“God, you feel so good.”

“You taste so good.” He sucked hard one last time before he looked up and looked into John’s eyes. He thrust harder against John but slowed his hand to firm even strokes.

“You…” Sherlock breathed. His cock began to pulse against John’s. He gritted his teeth, making a long keening sound. He didn’t take his eyes from John’s until the last few spasms overtook his frame. John could feel wetness spreading between them as Sherlock continued to move his hand over John.

The sounds he made, the look in his eyes as he came, it put John right over the edge. He came over Sherlock’s hand, which expertly stroked him until the strongest spasms slowed. Sherlock moved his hand up around John’s shoulder and simply hugged him tightly, still rutting with tiny little thrusts against John’s waning erection.

As John’s vision cleared, he looked into Sherlock’s beautiful eyes. “That was…” John paused for a long moment.

Sherlock looked at him expectantly, perhaps a bit nervously. He waited for John to finish his sentence.

“Well. It was,” he grinned, “Amazing. Again.”

Adorably, Sherlock half-smiled and turned his head so that half of his gorgeous face was smushed into the pillow.

“You can’t be shy now, you knob.” John carded his fingers through the curls at Sherlock’s temple.

“I know,” he mumbled into the bedding.

John started to pull away from Sherlock, disentangling their legs and arms. Sherlock made a small frustrated sound of protest.

“Hold on.” John rolled over and picked up a vest from the floor. He used it to wipe them both down. Although they were still slightly sticky, they didn’t mind and John rolled right back over into Sherlock’s embrace.

Sherlock was still. John figured his brain must have started working again. He tensed and closed his eyes. John remembered the tension a few minutes after they’d finished last night. He very much doubted that Sherlock was having regrets. Sherlock had wanted him, had contacted him through the app, had confessed that he wanted to “date” John. So the tension must be because he doubted John’s intentions.

John continued to pet Sherlock’s hair. It was so soft and he was rapidly becoming addicted to the feel of it on his fingers, and the beautiful responses to his touch.

“Tell me.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John for a long time. John let every emotion he was feeling show - adoration, contentment, relief, amusement, a bit of smugness, and definitely love. Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly, and he took a deep breath.

“What are we going to do?” he asked even though John suspected he saw everything emotion on his face.

“Have mind-blowingly brilliant sex every six hours, apparently.”

“You’re not concerned.”

“Nope.”

“But we work together,” he protested, “We’re friends. Everything has changed.” Sherlock must be feeling that the monumental shift of physical love meant something different than John did. He wondered who in his past had taught him that lovers can’t be friends. John caught himself wondering about the Holmes household again.

“One thing has changed. This is better, I think. We’ll still work together. You’re still my friend. You’re my best friend, in fact.”

“But,” he tried to protest again, but John interrupted him with a kiss on his plush lips. John decided to confess and just spell everything out for Sherlock. Then it would be his turn to decide what he wanted.

“We started to talk about this last night, but let’s finish it.” John rubbed his hand down Sherlock’s arm soothingly then reached up to place his palm directly over his heart. His heart rate was elevated from nerves, or exertion, or a combination of both. “I need you. You said you need me, too.” Sherlock nodded, concentrating carefully on what John was saying. “Do you know why I was on Grindr?”

“To find men to date or,” he corrected himself, “to have sex with.”

“Yes, to find men who would have casual sex with me so I could stop thinking about having non-casual sex with you.”

“You were thinking about me?,” he quietly said, brows furrowed adorably. He added quickly, “Non-casual sex. Is that what we’ve been having?” Sherlock looked utterly confused.

John smiled and kissed him again. He couldn’t resist. Sherlock’s lips were going to be the end of him. How was he supposed to control himself at crime scenes, in Tesco Express, on the street, in cabs, at St. Barts?

“John, you’re kissing me and not answering me.”

“Sorry, I really don’t think I can control myself just yet.”

Sherlock looked pleased and placed his hand over John’s.

John stopped kissing him. Sherlock looked a bit worried and John decided now was the time. “The way I feel about you is anything but casual. It is everything, it’s all-consuming, it’s all I’ve ever wanted. And it’s so much better than I ever imagined,” John said, “Please, I want this to work. Please say that you’re mine. That I can have you like this. That we’re together. No more Grindr. No more dates for me, love. I need you in every way - in my work, my free time, in my bed." John's gaze never wavered. He wanted Sherlock to know that he was completely sincere and very serious. "Please say something now.”

\---------oo----~----oo---------

Sherlock looked into John’s eyes as he basically expressed his total commitment to Sherlock. To their work, their friendship, and this new delightful yet frightening aspect. He could see that John was absolutely honest and 100% believed what he was saying. If he was reckless but did what he desired, he would take John’s lovely words, put them into his heart and mind, and never let John go. If he was rational, he would stop this now and remind himself that caring is not an advantage. _Well, fuck rational._ He never was very good at denying himself things that he truly craved. And these feelings for John were stronger than anything he’d ever felt.

“I’m in love with you.”

 _Well, there’s that now._ He had not meant to say it so plainly. But he felt it. Oh, how he felt it. Now that he’d blurted it out, he felt a huge weight lift from his chest and squeezed John’s hand.

John looked completely shocked at this juicy exclamation. The shock lasted a half second before his eyes softened and his mouth formed the smallest, most adorably loving smile.

“I’m in love with you, too.”

Sherlock smiled his large goofy smile. He knew it was too big and there were too many teeth and chins, but he didn’t care.

“I love that smile.”

“Get used to seeing it. It’s for you.”

John surged forward and kissed him soundly. He was sure John could feel his increased heart beat with his hand still anchored on his chest. Their kiss slowed until they were left just staring at each other. John moved his hand to caress lightly over one of Sherlock’s nipples. He was so sensitive, it felt so good to have John touch him this way. He could feel himself getting hard again. Even he was surprised at how much John turned him on.

He moved forward to place his hand at the nape of John’s neck and bring their foreheads together.

He let go of all doubt about John’s feelings now that they had confessed their love. But love wasn’t always enough. _Or so I’ve heard. Would love be enough for us?_ John was loyal and devoted, but he wondered if he would put up with his rudeness, his experiments, or his dark moods for the rest of their lives. Because Sherlock needed the rest of John's life.

Sherlock thought about deceit. John was a moral man, and a terrible liar. But Sherlock himself was an actor, a chameleon, capable of lies taller than Big Ben, wider than the Channel. If Sherlock lied, or had to lie to save John’s life or limbs, he absolutely would. He knew he would lie, and steal, and kill for John. He knew he would lie _to_ John if he had to.

“What if it doesn’t work?” he whispered.

“It has to work,” John answered simply.

Sherlock made a frustrated noise through his nose and tightened his grip on John’s neck.

He repeated, “It has to work. We are us, we’re always going to be us, which means you’ll annoy me and I’ll get angry, but I’ll always come back. We’re going to work if the universe lets us have 1 year or 120 years together. We will always be us. Together. The two of us against the rest of the world.”

“What if I have to...hide certain things.”

“No,” he replied fiercely.

Sherlock frowned, released his neck and moved a few inches back to look at John, who was glaring at him.

“That won’t work. We won’t work. If you do that then there is no ‘two of us’, there’s only you. And we’re done with that now. Can we please agree on that?" he implored. "Sherlock, will you promise me?”

He couldn’t let John down. He couldn’t let John get away. He knew he would have to do anything to keep the promise he was about to make. In all sincerity he said, “I will try...No, I promise...that I will not hide anything from you.”

“All right.”

They were quiet for a long time, alternating between staring at each other and soft kisses.

Sherlock raised his hand and pushed the fringe from John’s head. John looked at him with such warmth and fondness, Sherlock physically could feel it in his chest.

“Are we boyfriends now?”

John smiled and giggled. “Yes, Sherlock Holmes has a boyfriend.”

With a mischievous glint in his eye, he said, “Good. I want to try something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and please come find me - I am [onesmallfamily](http://onesmallfamily.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.


	10. Chapter 10

“I want to fuck you.”

John’s eyes widened and his eyebrows shot up in shock. His mouth suddenly dry, he tried to swallow and ended up hacking a small cough instead.

“And then, I want you to fuck me.”

Just the vulgarity and frankness of Sherlock’s declarations had John’s cock twitching with interest. Sherlock was going to be his end unless he worked very, very hard to keep up.

He squeaked, “Now?”

Sherlock placed a small peck on his lips and then his cheek. He rolled away from John, sat up, and looked at him over his shoulder.

“No, not now. There are certain pre-conditions that need to be met and preparations to be made.”

John thought he understood what Sherlock meant. He felt both relieved and slightly disappointed. He thought of what Sherlock had just been doing with his magnificent hands, tapping lightly and rubbing over the cleft of his arse. Yes, just thinking about that sent a jolt of arousal southward. He would have no problem fucking or being fucked. He thought of Sherlock’s full hips and plush round arse cheeks. He would quite like to spend some time holding those hips, biting at the soft flesh, then bury his nose between them so that he could reach his tongue out to…

“John.”

He was startled from his thoughts by Sherlock’s rather sharp tone. “What?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him and turned himself more fully. He was gorgeous that way. Sitting on the bed, hunched over slightly, muscles of his abdomen rippling, triceps and biceps tense and bulging as his hand clung to the edge of the blanket. Soft, trimmed, incredibly dark hair leading from his navel to his long soft cock, curved down between his open inner thighs. His pale skin cried out for kisses.

“John.”

“What?” he snapped, more frustrated at his even sharper tone.

“You can't be serious.”

“What?” he said a third time.

Sherlock turned towards him, laying his torso back on the bed, head propped up on his elbow. In a very low voice, he said, “You seem distracted, John.” He reached his hand out to sweep lightly over John’s chest, neck, stomach, hips, thighs, and finally his cock. Soft touches that raised bumps on his skin and caused him to shiver with arousal. “What could possibly be so distracting?” he said, as he lazily fondled John’s soft cock. He didn't think he could get hard again so soon but it was lovely being touched by Sherlock like this.

“I...You…”

“Hmm?”

“Oh, that feels nice. Mmm...what you do to me.”

Sherlock looked at John with half-lidded eyes and a small smile. He continued to stroke John, and John reached out to brush his fingers through his hair. Sherlock looked down and stared at John’s crotch. They stayed like that for a few minutes. Sherlock had stopped stroking John, but was sort of...petting...John’s cock and balls with the very tips of his long gorgeous fingers. Then he lifted it, holding it in his palm, as if to weigh it. Finally, he took his enormous hand and cupped John’s entire package. Sherlock said something quietly that sounded like, “Huh.” John knew he had just been signed up to be a part of what promised to be some very interesting experiments indeed.

John realized that he had never responded to Sherlock’s outstandingly brilliant suggestion for expanding their sexual catalog. “Okay.”

Sherlock had been gently squeezing around John, staring at his hand on John’s genitals.

“What?” Sherlock answered with a confused ( _adorable_ ) look on his face. _Now who’s turn was it to be distracted?_

“I’m saying yes, to that...um, thing you suggested before.”

“Oh. You mean the fucking.”

 _Jesus._ “Yes, I mean the fucking.”

“Well, of course you are amenable. That was never really in question, John.”

John chuckled, “I guess you really do know me.”

Sherlock slowly smiled, moved his hand to John’s hip and hoisted himself up to place a brief, but incredibly sweet kiss, on John’s shoulder. “I know you, yes, but I’d like to know more. Everything, in fact.”

“I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Nicer than ‘I want to fuck you’?”

They giggled, staring into each other’s eyes.

John thought of it again. He thought of the question that had been on his mind since the moment William turned into Sherlock. He didn’t want to ruin the mood, but he needed to know about Sherlock’s history.

“Sweetheart?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Shut up. You fucking love it.”

Sherlock kissed his mouth. John reveled in the feeling of Sherlock’s plush lips and the contrasting scratchy stubble. Sherlock’s kiss was more than answer enough. John knew Sherlock loved every affectionate word.

“Why were you on Grindr?”

He tensed slightly. Maybe he thought they would never talk about it. John really wanted to know. They could talk about sexual history and the men and women they dated later. But John needed to know why and hoped, oh how he hoped, that he knew the answer.

Sherlock started strong, confident, and a bit too loud, “I found myself,” but then his voice got quieter, and he seemed to hesitate, “stimulated regularly,” He hesitated again, this time he looked down at the bed, “and thought that a random sexual outlet would help.” He blinked down at the covers, avoiding John’s face.

 _Oh this was gorgeous._ It was just as he suspected and John was not going to let this opportunity pass. Watching Sherlock squirm was one of his great pleasures in life. Just because they were boyfriends now didn’t mean that John was going to stop trying to best Sherlock Holmes in any way he could. If only just to see those cheekbones pinken.

John affected his most sincere ‘confused’ face. “I wonder...why were you regularly stimulated?” He looked away thoughtfully and answered his own question, “Well, Lestrade is an extremely handsome man, I admit,” he teased. “And Mike Stamford is a lovely bloke, so generous and kind.”

Sherlock looked up, his face exasperated. He knew he was being teased now. “John,” he chided.

John continued, “What problem, I wonder, would a sexual outlet ‘help’?” He smiled hugely, relishing - no absolutely hoarding, coveting - the look on Sherlock’s face. It was a mixture of embarrassment, pleasure, and irritation.

“You know,” he accused, “You did the same thing for the same reason.”

John just smiled.

“All right,” Sherlock sighed, “It was you.”

“Me?” John wore his most innocent expression.

Exasperated, he said, “You know it was because of you. My proximity to you. Why must you tease me? I thought you...I thought we were in...I thought you were my boyfriend. Do I now have to look forward to you irritating me beyond what I’ve become accustomed to?”

John giggled at the haughty tone of his short diatribe. Sherlock just looked more annoyed and equally affronted.

“I just wanted to hear you say it, gorgeous.”

Sherlock looked down with a small smile. John knew he hadn’t actually annoyed the man and swept his hand over his back in what he hoped was a soothing way. Sherlock relaxed and looked back at John, sweeping his eyes over his whole body.

“John, we’re naked.”

“Yes...lovely, that.”

“I’m hungry.”

“Hmm...surprising.”

“Is it?” Sherlock’s nose crinkled adorably.

“Ngh,” he grunted, “you are going to be the death of me.”

“What? My last intention is for you to die.” His nose crinkled further. The crinkle only went up a little but the adorableness factor went up exponentially. _How did he do that? And how will I ever be able to resist him now? I am so fucked._

“I know, love. Just a figure of speech. Nevermind. Let’s get some food.”

John grabbed Sherlock’s face and pulled him down for a heated kiss. He ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair delighting in the small whimpers coming from his throat. He pulled back to inspect his effect. Sherlock’s expression did not disappoint. He had a lovely pink wash across his cheekbones, eyes glazed over and barely open, hair a tall frizzy halo that made him look 10 years younger.

“God, I love you.”

Sherlock smiled shyly.

John didn’t really expect him to say it back, he was happy to find that he felt like he didn’t even need it. Sherlock had already told him and, most importantly, showed him how he felt. “Okay, up you. To Speedy’s.”

Sherlock rose on shaky legs and left the room to get ready to leave the flat. John could hear the sink running in the loo, then Sherlock banging around in his bedroom. He noted that Sherlock chose to forgo a shower and felt mildly flattered by that. He didn’t want to shower just yet either. Maybe they would shower together.

John dressed quickly in jeans and a loose striped jumper. He ran fingers through his hair and went downstairs to meet Sherlock. Their trip to Speedy’s would be quick. John wanted to nurture this new thing with Sherlock, and perhaps keep to their six-hour schedule for as long as was physically possible.

Sherlock had put on jeans and a jumper too, all black. His jumper was the softest cashmere. They walked downstairs without grabbing their coats. The weather was mild and they weren't going far. John grabbed Sherlock’s hand and twined their fingers together. Sherlock looked down and smiled sweetly.

“Come on, I’m going to feed you up.”

They walked into Speedy’s, acknowledging the familiar man behind the counter. Reza nodded at them. They sat down in the corner, there were only a few other people in the restaurant. Reza came over to their table and John said cheerily, “We’ll have two full English and two coffees. Thanks.” He had not released Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at John.

“You’re eating it.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Yes, John,” and pulled out his phone with one hand, still holding John’s over the table.

John hummed and stared at Sherlock’s long fingers. He rubbed his fingers over them. He was tempted to pull them into his mouth, but settled for lifting them to his lips for two short kisses. Sherlock quickly looked into his eyes and smiled, returning to his phone screen in a blink.

In a few minutes their food came and, surprisingly, Sherlock put his phone down, dropped John’s hand and tucked into his eggs. John watched him eat with immense satisfaction. Sherlock caught him watching and winked. “I told you I was hungry,” he said with his mouth full.

“Nice,” John said, rolling his eyes. Breakfast was particularly delicious this morning and he savored every warm bite. He loved this give and take that he and Sherlock had from their first day together. Although he was the one who had assured Sherlock that nothing would change, he was relieved to note that their easy back and forth was intact. It was even more satisfying because it was no longer ‘implied’ flirting, it was full-on ‘sex-has-finally-happened-and-will-again-soon’ flirting now.

Sherlock pushed his half-eaten breakfast away, apparently finished. John sighed. He figured now was as good a time as any to ask something he’s been wanting to know. “So why the perfect stranger?”

Sherlock looked momentarily confused then must have realized what John was asking. “I think I heard it in a song. I’ve deleted it.”

“But what does it mean, why did you choose it?”

“It sounds mysterious.”

John nodded, “You love being mysterious.”

Sherlock did not deny this, he noted with a smirk.

“The encounters were meant to be fleeting so I would remain a ‘stranger’. I was never looking for anything more than a casual tryst.”

“And you are perfect,” John teased.

“Obviously.”

John scoffed and Sherlock laughed.

“Your profile name, on the other hand...If I hadn’t deduced it was you from your photo, I probably would have found you anyway.”

John rolled his eyes, “You never pay any attention to my stories about rugby or my favorite players.”

“I’m always listening, John. Always.”

“No you’re not.”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, took a deep breath and said, “You’re right, I’m not.” They giggled together, and as Sherlock’s laughter faded, he said shyly, “But I’ve never told you...”

John would never, ever, if he lived to 100, tire of watching a shy Sherlock about to confess a hidden secret. It would remain devastatingly adorable, he just knew it. He asked with a placid smile, “What have you never told me?”

“The fact that you played rugby is deeply arousing to me. Something about your small size and the violence of the sport...” He stopped, eyes becoming unfocused and sat still for a moment. He continued, his deep baritone voice rough, “I’m not sure we should continue talking about this, actually, if I am to stand anytime soon.”

John watched as Sherlock’s face reddened and he cleared his throat. He chuckled, and raised Sherlock's hand to his lips for a short, very chaste, kiss. “Mmm...that is very good information to know, ta.”

He went back to eating. His breakfast was almost gone and he looked over to eye Sherlock’s half-eaten plate. “May I? I plan on burning more calories later on,” he said with a wink.

“All yours,” Sherlock winked back.

Sherlock simply stared at John’s face and hands as he finished his breakfast. John would look up and smile at him every few bites. He was never too bothered when Sherlock did this, and now that he was allowed, he wondered if Sherlock planned on spending a lot more time openly observing him.

After a few minutes of silent staring, he suddenly said, “Planning.”

John looked up from his beans. He really had no idea what he was talking about. He looked at him, eyebrows raised in question.

“Planning,” he said more clearly, looking at John expectantly.

John looked back at him, perplexed but patient. He was completely used to not understanding what his mad man was thinking.

“We need to plan...” he said out loud, paused, raised his eyebrows and opened his eyes wide, nodding his head slightly, “the fuck-...,” he started to mouth the word soundlessly, only to be stopped by John’s finger pressing to his lips.

John sighed patiently and thought it was safe to remove his finger from his friend’s full lips. He whispered, “Sherlock, we’ve been fucking. You mean...,” and now it was his turn to mouth the word, “penetration.”

“Yes, that,” he smirked.

“Okay, I’m pretty sure I know what you mean about planning. We need to prepare...clean...the right timing is important.” John was surprised to learn that he was not embarrassed talking frankly about this topic. It was a practical talk that should have been reasonable and un-sexy. But he was dealing with Sherlock here. Un-sexy was not a word to describe anything about the man.

Sherlock leaned forward, raised one eyebrow, licked his perfectly formed upper lip slowly ( _so slowly_ ). In a voice that could only be described as subsonic, he said, “I am not a patient man,” and licked his lips again.

John stared at Sherlock’s lips. This gorgeous display of pure desire provoked John’s mouth to fill with saliva. He swallowed audibly. John felt his cock plumping in his pants. It was absolutely mad that he would be ready for another orgasm at his age, and after three already. “Fuck,” he mouthed silently.

Sherlock, _the bastard_ , knew exactly what he was doing to John. “That’s the idea.”

John’s eyes snapped back up to his. He swallowed again, “Sherlock.”

“John.” He quirked his lips to one side.

John could feel the pressure of his pants and jeans against his cock, “You bastard, you are not playing fair.”

“And that surprises you?”

John chuckled, “Of course not.”

Sherlock leaned in closer, reached his hand across the table and placed his forefinger on John’s chin. John raised his face up slightly and Sherlock let his finger softly drag back along John’s jaw, down the side of his neck, and rested in the hollow of his throat. It was a slow deliberate touch, incredibly intimate. All the time, Sherlock’s eyes were watching the gradual path of his finger. When his finger came to rest, Sherlock’s gorgeous blue-green eyes snapped back up to his. John noticed that he shifted very slightly in his seat, not quite a squirm but enough to make John suspect Sherlock might not be unaffected by their conversation. He moved his large hand over John’s shoulder, down his arm, and tangled their fingers together. He raised John’s hand to his lips and began to slowly rub his thumb back and forth across those soft, gorgeous, full lips. He snaked his tongue out to lick small circles on the pad, then engulfed just the tip with a small sucking motion.

John was mesmerized by such a blatant presentation and a small sound escaped the back of his throat, “Nnm..”

Sherlock grinned and continued the small wet circles.

John tightened his fingers around Sherlock’s, and reluctantly, yet forcefully, yanked them away from his lips.

“Consider this thing planned. We’re leaving. Now.”

A flurry of movement and they were slapping some notes on the table, bounding out the door, hand-in-hand, up the stairs, slamming the door to 221B shut.

John pinned Sherlock against the back of the door and went up on his tiptoes to hit him with a bruising kiss. Hot breaths mingled as the kiss turned from desperate to something slower and more sweet. He pulled Sherlock’s head down to place his lips at his temple.

“We’re doing this now.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes. Shower. Then bed,” he murmured into Sherlock’s ear. He moved lower with small wet kisses, stopping to mouth wetly at the sensitive skin right below his ear. “Then I’m going to fuck you until you scream.”

Sherlock pulled away slightly and lightning-fast flipped their positions so John’s back was up against the wall. He put his hands on either side of John’s face, effectively caging John with his body. He looked down into John’s eyes, voice rough, and said, “Not if I fuck you first.” He held John back against the wall, and before he could protest, strode into the loo, locked the door, and turned on the shower.

John stood there, desperately turned on, cock stiff as bone in his jeans. “Git,” he muttered. He went into Sherlock’s bedroom, a place he had rarely been. But that was about to change. This was where they were going to be for a while, this day and all of the days to come, if John had any say in it. He heard Sherlock humming in the shower and couldn’t help but smile.

He rifled through the drawers and found lube. When he found the condoms a jolt of sheer jealous rage zipped across his brain. His thoughts turned dark and probably over-protective. He had the irrational thought that he did not want anyone to touch Sherlock, in any way, ever again. He would need to get these feelings under control if he was to behave like an adult man, and not a possessive teenager, whenever Sherlock interacted with another person in his presence. For now, though, he let the jealous, green-eyed beast within drive his libido even higher.

The taps turned off and he could see Sherlock’s lithe pale form exit the shower, grab a towel, and begin to dry his skin. John turned away from the bed and started to remove his clothing. His cock had softened during the few minutes that Sherlock was showering, although he could still feel the energetic buzz of arousal living on his skin.

Just as he removed his pants, he heard, “Your turn.”

He turned around to see a damp Sherlock, gloriously naked, cock plump but resting, heavy and long, against his scrotum. His hands were on his hips, a self-satisfied smile playing on his lips. Piled high on his head like a housewife in a beauty shop was a bright turquoise towel that make his eyes shine blue as the Caribbean.

John swallowed. _Jesus. How did I get so lucky?_ He ran his eyes up and down Sherlock’s beautiful body and finally looked at his face and said, “Um...okay.”

Sherlock stalked over to him, leaned over and whispered in his ear, “I’m very clean.”

The sound rumbled through him, the humid air in his ear made him shiver. He was keenly aware of his own nudity and the proximity of Sherlock’s warm damp skin. The implications of what he said finally reached John’s brain. Said brain told his legs to _get a fucking move on, he’s waiting for you!_

John whipped his head around, capturing Sherlock’s wetted lips in a surprise kiss. It was just a peck really, but Sherlock softly moaned and reached his hand down to cup John’s arse cheek and pull him closer.

John stopped him by grabbing his wrist. “Oh, no you don’t.”

“John,” he whined.

“Like you said, my turn.” John turned for the shower and heard a small whimper behind him. It was extremely gratifying to hear that Sherlock wanted him as much as he wanted Sherlock, the most brilliant, beautiful, sexy man he’d ever known.

He stepped into the shower and started to meticulously lather himself everywhere with Sherlock’s lovely body wash. He spent a lot of money on the wash, that some might call poncy, but it was worth every penny for how rich and fragrant the bubbles were. After a thorough rinse, he reached behind him to touch himself. The hot water, the body wash, and the simmering arousal aided his endeavor. After a few minutes of gentle massage with his fingers he was feeling quite relaxed and very clean.

He stepped out of the shower, quickly dried himself off. He took a quick mental inventory and noted that although he was getting more excited, he was not nervous in the least. He dropped the towel and walked into Sherlock’s room ready. _So ready_.

He opened the door to find Sherlock spread out across the whole bed. _Jesus, how long are his legs?_ He casually, slowly stroked his erection with his left hand as he scrolled through his phone with his right. John walked towards the bed as Sherlock put his phone down. He lifted both arms up in invitation and John eagerly fell on top of him to bring their lips together in a scorching hot kiss.

Sherlock licked into his mouth, mapping wet spaces. They clung to each other pressing their chests together, arms wrapped tightly. Their breathing turned from loud whooshes of air through their noses, to open-mouthed pants. Sherlock started to shudder and John secretly hoped that if he spoke now he would hear his sexy lisp. He was in awe. Sherlock wanted him so badly. His fourth orgasm in a 24-hour period was imminent, how could this happen? He’d never been in love like this. They were fully entangled, pressed from lips to thighs, rubbing their hard cocks together slowly.

He broke their kiss to look at his love. “Everytime we kiss it’s like the first time. It’s exciting. New. Fucking hot,” he breathed, pressing one more small kiss to Sherlock’s eager lips. “Everytime I see you naked and wanting me, it’s like the first time. I think to myself that you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and exhaled shakily. His lips quivered. One slow inhale. A slow exhale and he seemed a bit more composed. He said, “That’s it. That’s the song, ‘each time we kiss you’re the perfect stranger’.” John simply watched his face while he seemed to come back to himself and opened his eyes. A brilliant huge grin broke over his stunning face, “I was waiting for you the whole time. I want only you. Each time we kiss you’re my perfect stranger.”

“Sherlock Holmes, you are a sodding romantic.”

“Only for you.”

John kissed him again, trying to show him just how much he was wanted and loved. Sherlock was making little grunting noises, rutting his gorgeous hard cock against John’s abdomen. Every few thrusts their cocks would align and sweet friction caused them both to groan just a bit louder.

“God, you are perfect. So fucking perfect.”

Sherlock knew that wasn't true, but he couldn't help the pleasure radiating through his chest at John's praise. What Sherlock knew was that there was only one perfect man in the room, and it certainly wasn't him. 

“John,” he said in a voice completely wrecked with lust.

“I’m yours,” he rasped, voice equally wrecked. “I’m yours. Head to toe.”

“Mine,” he gasped, and flipped them over. Sherlock hovered over him.

Sherlock’s eyes creased at the corners, lips quirking up at each end in a devious and devastatingly flirtatious smile.

“I’m going to fuck you now John.”

He groaned at the sound of his name on Sherlock’s lips. “Please.” He reached over towards the bedside table, but Sherlock batted his hand away and quickly, grabbed the bottle and dumped a truly huge amount of lube into his hand.

“Shit.”

John chuckled, “Here, give me some.” He took some warmed it up, and slicked up both of their cocks, polishing them to a high shine, all the while making small satisfied ‘hmm’ sounds. John admired his work. “Fuck, you are gorgeous. Perfect.”

Sherlock had been watching John’s hands. His face slack, eyes darkened by wide pupils half-lidded, mouth open, breathing ragged. He swallowed and seemed to come back to the task at hand.

“Put your leg up here, over my hip.”

John raised one leg high so Sherlock could reach around and underneath him.

\---------oo----~----oo---------

Sherlock watched as John slicked them up and shined their cocks to a high gloss. The image of his cock next to John’s, shiny, wet, and luminous stopped him in his tracks. Simply put, he couldn’t believe his eyes. He was used to being aroused in John’s presence. He had been turned on more times than he could remember. But now it was hard for him to grasp that he had the love of this impossibly fascinating, devastatingly beautiful, brave man. That he was about to penetrate him and make him come and see, hear, and taste his gorgeous abandon. It was overwhelming and for a moment, his brain stuttered and he could only stare at the obvious evidence of John’s attraction to him.

He hadn’t realized he was staring at the beautiful phallic display of lust beneath him until John spoke, “...are gorgeous. Perfect.” He swallowed and looked back up to John’s face.

“Put your leg up here, over my hip.”

Sherlock now had perfect access. Keeping his eyes on John’s, he lowered his hand down to run his slick fingers along his cleft. He stroked the wrinkled ring of muscle gently noting that John seemed relaxed and already partially open.

“Mm..what did you do?”

John’s eyelids fluttered. He gasped as Sherlock pressed in slightly, “Relaxed in the shower.” Gasp. “Want you.” Another gorgeous gasp as he got the tips of two fingers just inside John. “Ready now.”

Sherlock chuckled at his eagerness, “Not quite.” He assumed that John had done this before but he hadn’t let John know that this would be his first time doing this exact... _thing_.

Sherlock moved away, down John’s body. John’s leg fell to the side opening him wide so Sherlock had even better access, and a fantastic view. He lifted John’s legs slightly and gently probed in, his two fingers going deeper every time. It was fascinating to watch part of his body entering part of John over and over again. John was so warm, hot really. It was all-consuming how much data he could collect. He would, when he had the chance, he promised himself. But in this moment he wanted to concentrate on the slick, smooth glide of his fingers preparing John. His thoughts were a constant string of praises and disbelieving pleas. _Oh I hope this feels good, I hope he likes this, please like this, please let me do this again, I may never want to end this, I could do this forever, please let’s never stop, he’s so gorgeous, he’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, I can’t believe I get to do this, I love him so much it hurts._

Sherlock thought it was time. John was open and if the loud moans were any indication, he was ready.

“Now, please, I’m ready,” John confirmed Sherlock’s thoughts.

Sherlock hovered over him looking down John’s body where his extremely hard cock was hovering over John’s. He got more lube and slicked it over his cock, took himself in hand and moved back to rub the head the along the length of his cleft in one long swipe. Sherlock kept rubbing the head of his cock up and down his cleft, finally stopping right at his entrance. Using his hand to guide his erection, he rubbed it in small circles until he was just a few millimeters inside.

John moaned, “Honey, please.”

He entered John in one long, very slow stroke. John grunted at the intrusion but remained relaxed. Once fully seated, Sherlock simply stayed buried as deep as he could and asked, “Are you all right?”

John moaned, “Mmm… yes.”

“I’m inside you,” he breathed in wonderment, staring into John’s eyes.

“Yes, love.”

“I’m going to move now.”

“Good.”

Sherlock started rocking his hips, watching his cock disappear into John’s body again and again. His rhythm was slow and steady. It felt tight and hot and glorious. John’s body seemed to squeeze around him on every outward thrust, creating dazzling friction. He could already feel his orgasm building, he wouldn’t last. He hoped John would understand.

“I’ve never done this.”

The look on John’s face got impossibly fonder, his eyes softening and glistening a little more than they had been.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said, and pulled Sherlock down so that their lips met. John lifted his hands up to cup his face, directing this kiss from below. Their tongues danced against one another slowly at first. As Sherlock picked up the pace, the kiss turned more heated.

Soon Sherlock was gasping for breath. He couldn’t continue kissing John. It was too much. He was going to come and it was going to be _right now_.

“I love you.”

With John’s words, Sherlock came with a force he’d never felt. He was buried deep within John with his hips stilled, cock pumping furiously. He could feel warmth and wetness as the impossibly strong spasms wracked his body. It was pure and utter bliss. Waves of tingling pleasure moved through his body and didn’t stop for ages. He collapsed on top of John, still shaking, still mostly hard, pumping his hips slowly trying to chase down the last waves of the most powerful orgasm he had ever felt. When he realized he’d been uttering grunts and ‘ah’s and was practically crying with the intensity of his feelings, he stilled and went quiet, giving in to the peace of his mind and body. That was also when he realized that John was still extremely hard.

Sherlock lifted his head to look at John. Beautiful John, his John, was looking back at him with a big smile on his face.

“Mm…how was that sweetheart?”

“No wordth.” 

His smile got bigger, “Glad to hear it. You are so beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful.”

Sherlock moved his hips a bit and his cock slipped out of John. He winced, then asked John, “Are you all right?”

“Mm Hmm.”

He rolled off of John onto his side, facing him. He felt slightly embarrassed that he hadn’t lasted longer. He would work on that and hoped that John didn’t feel frustrated.

John said, “I’m going to go to the loo. You stay just like that.”

Sherlock watched him get up and leave the room. He noted with relief that he didn’t seem to be showing any signs of discomfort.

John returned to room and walked towards the bed, cock hard and bobbing heavily with each step. Sherlock’s mouth watered. He was pleased, and somewhat bewildered, that he felt himself getting aroused again, already.

“This,” Sherlock grabbed John’s cock, encircling his hand around it, slowly moving his hand up and down, “is going to feel so good inside me.”

“We don’t have to…”

He interrupted, “Yes, we are. I’ve waited my entire life to feel you inside me and we’re doing that. Now.” He knew he was being demanding, possibly unreasonably so. He amended, “If you like.”

John smiled wickedly and tapped his hip. “Move over. On your stomach.”

He quickly launched himself to the other side of the bed, stomach down, legs spread wide, head resting on his forearm towards John. A thrill ran through Sherlock imagining what he was going to do.

John and his delightfully hard cock sat up with a grunt and knelt between Sherlock’s knees.

Sherlock wanted to check in with him one more time. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Never better. Can’t you tell?” Sherlock felt John’s hips against his buttocks and his wide cock settled into the cleft of his arse.

“Nghhh…”

“I love it when you get nonverbal,” he said as he sat back up. He placed his hands on Sherlock’s arse and started kneading the muscles. Already relaxed, he let out a long satisfied sigh.

John stopped squeezing and just passed his hands lightly all over the skin of Sherlock’s arse, the back of his legs, behind him to his calves. He felt very relaxed but there was a low fizz of arousal starting, which felt like a small throb in his lower abdomen. He wildly thought that maybe they could just stay like this for days, never getting dressed, having Mrs. Hudson bring them food, occasionally getting their own water or tea. He smiled to himself at the thought that John was turning him into a lustful sex-crazed harlot. He’d never had this much sex but he wanted it all, wanted even more. Wanted it with his body, mind and soul. Wanted it very badly, it turned out.

He felt John reach over to get the lube, heard him open, squeeze, and close it. With great anticipation he waited for what was coming next. And waited. And waited some more.

“John?” He turned his head to peek over his shoulder at him. John was sitting still with his elbows bent and his glossy hands hovering in front of him. His eyes were shut tight, mouth hanging open, chest heaving with fast breaths. Sherlock had a brief moment of panic, thinking maybe John didn’t want to do this after all. But no, he looked at the rest of him and thought that he looked overcome, not regretful. His erection was massive and certainly looked like it wanted to ‘do this’ very much.

John opened his eyes and huffed out a quiet laugh when he realized that Sherlock was watching him.

“Sorry.”

“All right?”

“Overwhelmed.”

Sherlock watched as his breathing evened out, then smiled at him. He wiggled his hips, jostling John slightly, and drawled in his sweetest, most teasing tone, “Sweetheart.”

A huge grin broke out on John’s handsome face and he laughed, the most cherished sound to Sherlock’s ears.

“Oh, you’re going to get it now.”

“Promise?”

John growled and surged forward to kiss his lips. The kiss was brief, sloppy, at an awkward angle, and absolute perfection.

John sat up and spread Sherlock’s cheeks to slick him along his entire cleft. He began to alternate between tapping and circling Sherlock’s entrance. He had done this to himself but it felt a thousand times better when it was John doing it. He could hear him breathing, feel his warmth. He thought briefly back to his encounter with Chris and was enormously grateful that they had not done this. John would be his first, and only.

One of John’s fingers breached him and he gasped at the sensation. “Yes, yes.. f-fuck.” He was surprisingly sensitive and he couldn’t wait for John to go deeper. “Mm...more.” He hardly recognized his own voice it was so deep.

He dipped his finger in then circled around the rim, over and over again, setting up a glorious rhythm that had Sherlock thrusting back onto his finger. John must have felt how eager he was. He gave him more, two fingers, then three, rapidly opening him up. He had been avoiding his prostate, probably on purpose because he knew John knew where to find it if he wanted. Impatient as always, the next stroke of John’s fingers inside, Sherlock moved his hips backwards so that the pad of his middle finger grazed the sensitive gland.

“Oh!” he cried, eyes going wide.

John gave him a short swat on his hip. “None of that, you.”

“More, please,” he begged, “Now.” He had meant the last word as more of a demand than a plea but it sounded desperate even to his own ears. His cock was hard as stone. Again. John had rendered his refractory period nonexistent.

John chuckled, “Oh, I love it when you beg.” He added darkly, “I probably love it too much.”

Sherlock shivered at the delicious implications of John’s words. He imagined John keeping him on edge for hours, teasing him, not letting him come until his crying became too much for even John to bear. John pushed his fingers deep inside Sherlock, gently rubbing the pads over his prostate.

It was making him crazy, he needed John inside him with a longing he’d never felt for anything before. And Sherlock knew much about cravings. “I’m ready, please John.”

John pulled his fingers out and immediately Sherlock felt the head of John’s cock replace them. In one smooth motion, John entered Sherlock’s body.

_Warm. Full. So full. Love. One._

_John._

He laid himself fully along Sherlock’s back, bringing his hands up to his shoulders, then placed one hand under his chin to stroke his jaw and lips. He placed the other over the crown of Sherlock’s head, digging his fingers into the thick curls, pulling slightly. He thrust in and out slowly. John touched him with such tenderness. John was inside him and all around him. On every stroke he nudged his prostate, bringing him higher and closer to climax as his cock rubbed on the soft bed clothes beneath them. He wanted John to know how much this meant to him. It felt wonderful to have John in him, all around him, holding him.

Three words emerged from his lips with a gasp, “I love you.”

“I love you,” John said, pulling out completely.

“What…,” he started.

“I have to see you, turn over.”

Sherlock missed the heat of John on his back, but the need to see his beautifully expressive face prompted him to rotate and spread his legs wide, feet resting on the bed.

John hovered over him, using one hand to guide his cock. He entered Sherlock again and immediately began to thrust in a rapid smooth rhythm. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders, burying his face in his neck. Inhaling short breaths, exhaling small moans and grunts as his cock filled Sherlock over and over again.

“Say it again.”

He smiled, “I love you.”

“God, I love you. I love you so much I don’t know what to do with it.”

“This. This is what you do with it,” he smiled wider, smoothing his hands over John’s strong biceps, sweeping them down his sides to let them rest on his arse, pulling him ever closer.

John huffed out a laugh, “I’m not going to last.”

Sherlock’s cock was trapped between them and every few thrusts he would feel enough friction. John was hitting his prostate with regularity. It made him crazy with lust and he thought wildly that he might be able to come just from that. But he had come too many times in too short of a time. He would need more friction, stimulation to come again. He reached his hand down to John’s hips but couldn’t quite get it between them, where he needed it most.

“John.” He tapped his hip.

John looked up him. He looked completely wrecked. He thrusted quicker and shallower, lifting himself off of Sherlock a bit.

“Oh, oh!” he cried at the change in angle intensified John’s assault on his prostate.

Sherlock took advantage of the small space between them to get a hand on his achingly hard cock. John pushed up a little bit more, realizing what Sherlock was after. He grabbed his cock, jerked his hand quickly, pulling the foreskin wetly over the swollen head in efficient strokes.

Sherlock looked at John’s face, sweat making his hair look darker as it clung to his forehead. His mouth hung open, breathing rapidly but his eyes were open and looking into Sherlock’s with a hunger he hadn’t seen yet.

“You’re brilliant. Gorgeous.”

Sherlock’s hand moved faster, eyes never leaving John’s. He was undone. There was no Sherlock anymore. There was only them, what they were doing, how they were connected cock to arse, hand to cock, eye to eye. John moaned long and low, stilling his hips during the deepest thrust. Sherlock could feel his cock pumping his release from deep within him. John’s eyes almost closed as spasms wracked his whole body.

“John! Oh!” he cried out. The pressure and tension that was building released explosively. He felt vulnerable and helpless and hyper-aware and powerful all at once. His whole body was a tremor as waves of ecstasy raced through him. His mind felt numb, he couldn’t think of anything but white buzzing for long seconds.

His eyes were open. He was looking into John’s blue eyes. But it took a few seconds to realize this. When his brain stopped fizzing and he could re-focus, he found John smiling down at him.

“You came again,” his smile turned smug and he thrust his hips again.

“Huh!” he huffed, “Yes, quite observant of you.”

“You love me.”

He smiled, “I do.”

John giggled. “I’m going to move now.”

John pulled his hips back, pulling out of Sherlock carefully. Sherlock stayed still, knowing what he must look like.

John knelt between his spread legs looking over Sherlock’s body. He must have seen Sherlock’s release all over his stomach and pubic hair. Sherlock could feel John’s leaking out of him. John was not smiling any more but looking down at him completely fascinated, thoroughly distracted, and it seemed more than slightly possessive. Sherlock stayed still and enjoyed John’s lustful expression.

“I’m yours. From head to toe.”

“Yes,” John whispered fiercely and surged up to kiss him senseless, “Mine.”

\---------oo----~----oo---------

Over the next few days, they reluctantly slowed their sexual pace to one or two times a day. They were each chafed and over-sensitive. But Sherlock seemed particularly averse to decreasing their frequency. He mentioned, hopefully, that they should try to work past the pain. He tried to reason that with sustained activity, their cocks would get used to the friction. John thought that sounded a bit too much like developing a callus, which was something he was not interested in having on his dick.

Sherlock also reasoned that blow jobs caused the least amount of chafing, and who was John to disagree with such a truth? They spent several days learning more about each other orally. During a particularly lazy afternoon, John learned that if he kept Sherlock’s cock very wet and simply licked small circles repeatedly over his frenulum, he got practically catatonic. The quiet coma lasted almost 30 minutes, during which time John’s tongue got very tired. It was worth the time and soreness to witness Sherlock’s orgasm, though. He shouted so loudly that John knew people walking down Baker Street could hear. It lasted longer than any other John had seen, and Sherlock’s thighs squeezed John’s ribcage to the point of almost breaking bone.

In those few days Sherlock also learned some things about John. John liked it a bit rough, so while they were taking it a bit easy on their cocks and arseholes, nothing would make John come harder than Sherlock looking into his eyes, lips wrapped wetly around his cock, while pinching his balls and nipple simultaneously.

John grew more confident in their relationship every day. He didn’t feel jealous, exactly, when that new constable flirted with Sherlock. He did, however, feel the need to stand a bit closer, and grab his hand as they were walking away from the crime scene.

That was how everyone at the Yard found out about them. Absolutely no one, to a person, was surprised.

Mrs. Hudson, who always thought they were together, was very confused when Sherlock announced, “John and I are boyfriends.”

“Yes, dear.”

“Hudders...John loves me.”

“Yes. And?”

“I love him.”

John just sat back, amused and also a little sad that they hadn’t figured it out sooner, and watched these two very confused people try to communicate.

“We’re together.”

She became exasperated, “I understand, Sherlock.”

“I have touched his penis. He has touched mine.”

“No need to be so crude, dear. What brought this on?”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed and he sighed. “Nevermind.”

After she left, he asked John why she seemed so uncaring when he thought she would be happy for him. For them.

John reached up and pulled Sherlock down for a soft kiss. “Because, honey, she already saw what we couldn’t see.”

“But now we do.”

John kissed away the lingering question in that statement. “Yes, now we do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more chapter to go - a short epilogue.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and please come find me - I am [onesmallfamily](http://onesmallfamily.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue

“Hostage,” John breathed, “Yes, that works. That works.”

They backed away from the superfluous showing of Scotland Yard at the door of 221B. A cop’s gun was in Sherlock’s hand pointed at John’s head.

“So what now?”

“Doing what Moriarty wants, I’m becoming a fugitive. Run!”

It had started months earlier with John looking delicious and wet in his robe and Sherlock trying not to be distracted by that fact. He was working his way through the most interesting cold cases the Yard could find. He examined a scrap of fabric taken from an 18th century scene of a suicide that was likely a murder instead, and compared what he saw to old drawings in a dusty book. He’d always been fascinated with the history of London’s cops and crimes. His text alert sounded several times but he was uninterested. Besides, he knew that it would soon irritate John and he’d just answer it for him.

That text started a chain of very worrying events.

_I am clever. I know I am. I can beat him._

But how was he to defeat the psychopath Moriarty? The man who had it out for him. The man who had strapped a semtex vest on his one true love. An obsessed self-proclaimed ‘fan’ who had vowed to burn the heart out of him.

It all seemed a bit excessive, really. He said rubbish like ‘our final problem’ and ‘I owe you’. Yes, Sherlock had interfered with his business, but it wasn’t intentional. He had not meant to catch the eye of the most insane, obsessive, dangerous psychopathic criminal he’d ever encountered. It just sort of happened.

He had beaten the cabbie, well, he thought he had. He’d never know if he’d made the right choice. And in the end it was John who saved him. _Brave loyal John._

He’d busted up Shan’s smuggling ring. He supposed that must have cost those involved more than a few shillings. It was clear that people cared too much about large sums of money, _how much money did one need, really?_

He had gotten the best of Irene. He gave Mycroft all of the secrets she’d spent years collecting. Jim wouldn’t be able to exploit her knowledge anymore.

He supposed those cases, and sheer madness, were reason enough for Moriarty to want him disgraced. Devastated. Defamed. Dead.

As he pondered a way out of Moriarty’s web, he wondered if Mycroft could help, but he rather suspected that he was somehow behind Jim’s renewed interest in actualizing his imminent demise.

He was well and truly fucked.

He had always been reckless, caring little for his own well-being. But John would be devastated to lose Sherlock now, he knew that. He was not a sociopath, he had empathy. The plan he was developing in his mind would destroy them. He imagined a world where John was considering such a plan, where he was the one in the dark. He considered how he would feel if John carried out such plan in front of Sherlock’s eyes. If John had to leave. If John had to lie. No, Sherlock would never survive it if the tides were turned. He had to think of another way. He promised John he would not lie. He promised John he would not hide important things from him. He loved and needed John. John was his partner and it just wasn’t an option to betray him.

If he was really clever...really clever, he would figure this out. _But no one could be that clever._ He had to be, for John. For them.

\---------oo----~----oo---------

“I’m not okay.”

“What do you need? I’ll do anything. Sherlock, what do you need?”

“You.”

“You always have me. You’re mine. I’m yours. And I’ve got you.”

“I may have thought of a way to beat him. But you’re not going to like it. I don’t like it.”

“Tell me. Whatever it is, we’ll get through it. Just the two of us against the world.”

“Just the two of us,” he agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your comments and encouragement. 
> 
> This story was inspired by some songs. Also, a post on Tumblr talking about Sherlock and John finding each other via Grindr, but I don't know who made it, but thank you anyway! But most of all, this story was inspired by Mildredandbobbin's fantastic, gorgeous, wonderful story [Time on my hands](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3091346). This story hits all of my buttons and it is so beautifully told. Do yourselves a favor and go read it now. 
> 
> I am [onesmallfamily](http://onesmallfamily.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.


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